


Close To Home

by Somniare



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, First Kiss, Getting Together, M/M, Post S8, Small Fandom Big Bang, Warning for canon appropriate violence, a face from the past, mention of suicide of non-canon character., non-canon compliant, there’s a murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-30 02:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6405700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somniare/pseuds/Somniare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The identity of a body found near a children’s playground creates unforeseen complications for DIs Lewis and Hathaway when evidence uncovered points an accusing finger at an unlikely suspect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Early September 2014

**Author's Note:**

> My deepest thanks to perclexed, who saw me through a crisis of faith in the story, to paperscribe for her amazing beta work, to barcardivodka for Brit-picking out my odd Australianisms. The story wouldn't be here without you.
> 
> A standing ovation is in order for deinonychus_1 for her amazing artwork. Thank you so much! <3
> 
> The story has been tinkered with massively since its return. All fluffs, errors, grammar violations, and plot waverings are all my own work.

* * *

 

 

 

Clutching a towel around his waist, James stuck his head out of the bathroom door and listened.  The rhythmic knock on his front door sounded again.  There was only one person who'd rap on his door like that so close to midnight.

“Robbie?” he called out quietly.

“Aye, it's me.”  The voice was careworn.

“Have I missed a call out?”  James and his sergeant, Lizzie Maddox, weren't due back on rotation until the following morning, but early recalls had happened in the past.  Why DI Robbie Lewis would be at his door and not Lizzie, however, was a mystery.

“No, it’s nothing like that,” came the flat reply.

James frowned worriedly when he heard Robbie huff through the closed door.  It may not have been work, but it wasn’t a social call either.

“Give me a minute.”  James draped the towel over the rail to dry off, and then quickly slipped into a pair of boxer shorts and an oversized t-shirt.  He shook his head and ran his fingers through his damp hair in an effort to be slightly presentable.

On opening the door, he was nonplussed to see Robbie still in the suit he'd worn to work that day, minus the tie, with a suitcase beside him and a suit bag slung over one shoulder.  He looked beyond work weary and as low as James had ever seen him.

“Can I come in, man?” Robbie asked quietly.

James stepped into the hallway, took the suitcase in one hand, and guided Robbie through the door with the other, taking the suit bag off him as he passed.

His back slightly stooped, Robbie made his way through to the living area and dropped heavily onto the couch.  He hunched forward, with his arms resting on his legs and his head bowed.  James left the suitcase in the small passageway, hung the suit bag on the coat rack, locked the door, and hurried through to sit beside Robbie.

“What's happened?” James asked gently.  He saw no sense in wasting time getting to the point.

Robbie lifted his head slightly and glanced at James.  “Any chance of a drink?”

James hesitated, then quickly decided that, as Robbie didn't look like he was going anywhere in a hurry, the conversation could wait for a few minutes.  He rose silently, went to the kitchen, and started to boil the kettle.  He set two mugs on the worktop before switching off the kettle with a muttered oath.  He swapped the mugs for two whisky glasses and retrieved the half-full bottle of Talisker from its spot at the back of the cupboard.  Bugger the late hour and work in the morning.  Pouring out two decent measures, he returned to Robbie's side, placing the glasses and bottle on the coffee table, and waited quietly.  When Robbie finally spoke, it wasn't what James expected at all.

“Do you still have the spare room set up, or did you get around to turning it into a study like you wanted to?”

“Um, it's a bit of both at the moment.”  James wanted Robbie to look at him again so he could have a chance at figuring out what was going on in Robbie’s head.

Robbie nodded imperceptibly.  “Any chance I can stay here for a couple of nights, just until I figure out where I'm going?”

James leapt to an unpalatable conclusion.  “Oh, God.  Has something happened to Laura, to the house?” he asked hastily, resisting the urge to take hold of his friend's hand to comfort him.

“No, nothing like that.”  Robbie sighed heavily.  “We've had a bit of a row – more than 'a bit' really.  I've moved out.”

“Moved out?  What on earth was the argument about?”  Robbie turned a querying eye on him, the eyebrow arching high.  “Sorry.  Not really any of my business,” James murmured.

Robbie shook his head.  “The details aren’t important right now, but let's just say we weren't going to see eye to eye on the matter.”

“I'm sorry.”  James didn't know what else to say.

“Ah, it's not your fault.  The truth is we haven't been a couple for a while.”

James was stunned.  He'd been aware Robbie and Laura had been a bit distant with each other at work recently, but he'd put that down to conflicting rosters and some very shitty cases.  “It’s not because you went back to work, is it?  I thought you’d sorted that out.”

James remembered vividly Laura’s reaction when Robbie had turned up at Tom Marston’s property to join the investigation into Alastair Stoke’s murder earlier that year.  While James had also had his own initial reservations about the new arrangement, he was soon thankful for Robbie’s return and had been very relieved a few weeks later when Laura had essentially given Robbie her blessing to work.  “It’s where Robbie’s happiest,” she’d said to James over dinner one night.  “Not that he always shows it.  Making a difference one day, one case, one person at a time – it’s where he’s meant to be and I’d be a fool to stand in his way.”

Robbie nodded.  “We have.  Had.”  He sipped his Talisker and stared at the coffee table.

James was clueless as to what else could have caused a rift.  Whenever he'd been in their home, it had been warm, welcoming, and safe.  Although his experience of a loving home life was limited, James truly believed it was what Robbie and Laura had.  “I don't understand,” he eventually said.  “If it wasn't work, then what?”

Robbie exhaled slowly and slumped back into the couch.  He cradled the glass in one hand, slowly swirling the amber liquid around.  James bit his bottom lip.  Why on earth had he asked the question?  He should have kept his mouth shut and given Robbie his space and now he’d put the man on the spot.  James started to rise to retrieve the whisky bottle.  Robbie’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Robbie, that was thoughtless of me,” James began.  “I shouldn’t have–”

“You’re all right, lad.  It’s going to come out sooner or later, and I’d rather you heard from me than pick up pieces of station gossip.  Just, give me a sec, yeah?”

James nodded once and pointed to the bottle on the worktop.  Robbie put a hand over the top of his glass.  James waited, chewing at his bottom lip to stop himself from prompting Robbie.

“‘We’re walking in different directions and trying to look like we’re walking together.’  That’s how Laura put it.”  Robbie rubbed his ear lobe.  “We’ve known each other a long time, and I think we both thought we wanted the same thing.  Thing is, when all was said and done, we didn’t.  Not really.  It’s as if we had to get together to understand being together wasn’t going to work.  Not for us.  Not in the long run.”  Robbie drained the last of his Talisker.  “Everything came out one night while we were on holiday in Prague.  Being away from Oxford, from work, family...it was as though we looked at what we had between us properly for the first time, and it wasn’t what we’d hoped for.  Laura and I – we’re too different in too many ways.  We were comfortable together, there was no doubt about that, but neither of us would be truly happy in the long run, and we agreed that life was too short to compromise on happiness.”  He put the empty glass on the table and pushed it away from him with the flick of a finger.  “And there you have it, such as it is.”

It was the most James had heard Robbie say about his relationship with Laura.  No doubt there was a lot he hadn’t said; however, James was quite certain that, despite his double first and all the books of philosophy and poetry he’d absorbed, were he in Robbie’s shoes, he would struggle to articulate his own emotions half as well.

“You said 'for a while.'  How long?”

Robbie squirmed a bit.  “I've been sleeping in the downstairs guest room since we got back from Prague.”

Robbie and Laura had been to Prague in July; James had dropped them off and picked them up from the airport, and looked after the garden while they were away.  There had been a tense moment when Robbie had told James he was considering postponing the trip.  “Just for a month or so,” he’d said.

The booking had been made in February – well before Robbie had surprised everyone (except Innocent) by returning to work in April – and they were to fly out the same week Lizzie was scheduled to return to desk duties after recovering from her assault.  Robbie had felt he should stay to support James, and it had taken all of James’s powers of persuasion to convince Robbie that he and Lizzie would be fine, as Innocent had also restricted James to desk duties for the first fortnight after Lizzie’s return.  Laura had been grateful to James.  Robbie had grumbled and told James he could call at any time, day or night, if he needed anything.  James had sent him a couple of reassuring texts instead.

“Prague?”  James was aghast.  “That was six weeks ago.  I slept in the guest room last Friday.  You didn't say anything.  Where did you sleep?”

“Fold out bed in the study.”

“Shit, Robbie.  You should have told me.  I could have gone home that night or slept on the fold out bed.  Hell, you could have come here and used the spare room.”

“You don't mind if I stay here for a bit?  Just until I find something else.”

“Of course not.  The room's pokey, but you're welcome to stay as long as you need to.”  James instantly began to regret the openness of the offer.

“Thanks, man.”

They sat in silence for a while.  James sipped his drink.  It wasn’t an easy silence for James.  He had questions.  At the same time, he was seeking a way he could ensure he didn’t reveal too much of himself.  One question in particular niggled at him.

“Why did you stay at the house?”  James couldn’t imagine living under the same roof with someone when you’d agreed to part ways. 

“Dunno really.  Not now.  Would have been better to make a clean break I suppose, but there were six months left on the lease, and Lyn and the family were coming down in August for a couple of weeks so...”  Robbie shrugged.  “We thought it would also give us both time to find somewhere else.”

“Except work hasn't exactly made it easy to get out and hunt for a new flat.”

“No, and I've still not said anything to Lyn.  She thinks I'm settled.  If she finds out I'm not, she'll be on at me again to think about moving north eventually.”

“Ah.  That explains…”  James bit his bottom lip.

“Explains what?”  Robbie sat forward and turned to face James.

James considered his next words carefully.  “I never told you, but I had – what I thought at the time – an odd email from Lyn after they’d gone back to Manchester.”

“Oh?”

“She wanted to know if you had any health issues you were hiding from her.”

“She what?”  Robbie’s pale eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose in a deep frown.

James raised one palm to stop him.  “She said Laura had been acting different throughout the whole visit, as though she was hiding something, and Lyn’s first thought was that it was connected to your health.”

“Bloody hell.”  Robbie slumped over his lap.  His elbows dug into his thighs and he pulled his hands down over his face.  “What did you tell her?”

“The truth, as I knew it.  That as far as I was aware, you were fine.  Work was going well and I had no reason to believe anything was amiss.”  James was appalled that, as an experienced detective, he’d missed the signs that all wasn’t right in the Lewis/Hobson household.  “I promised to let her know if I found out anything I strongly believed she should know.”

“Do you think she needs to know?”

James avoided his own family issues, and had no intention of imposing his opinions on another’s family unless he had no other choice.  “It’s not my call to make.  Unless you’re hiding some illness as well, and then I’d strongly encourage you to set her mind at ease.  You’re not sick, are you?”

“Only a bit at heart, I think.”

James had no answer to that, though he knew the feeling well.  He steered the conversation to what he hoped was safer ground.  “Have you given any thought to where you’d like to move to?”  To his astonishment, Robbie nodded.

“I checked out my old building but there were no vacancies, and then I contacted the company that manages this building.”  Robbie waved a hand in the air.

James blinked in surprise.  Robbie had considered moving here?  “I could have told you there were no vacancies here.”

“I’m sure you could have.”  Robbie smiled sadly.  “But then I would have had to tell you about me and Laura.  You didn’t need that, not with Lizzie getting back on her feet and out on the streets again.  You needed to concentrate your energies there.”

James shifted uncomfortably.  His life had made him fiercely independent, had taught him not to rely on others for his welfare and wellbeing.  More than nine years with Robbie quietly watching out for him hadn’t entirely broken that habit, and he was nearly always surprised when Robbie put James’s needs before his own.

If Robbie had noticed James’s discomfort, he gave no indication.  “I was thinking this weekend is probably as good a time as any to start looking, what with my current case all but in the hands of the CPS.  Want to join me?”

James lay back against the couch and rolled his head towards Robbie.  “Your case may be over but Lizzie and I go back on rotation in the morning.”  Robbie wrinkled his nose.  “Tell you what,” James said, sitting forward again.  “If I’m available, I’d love to join you.  Since I’ll probably end up on your couch at some stage, I’d like to ensure you have enough room for a decent sized one.”

“Cheeky sod.”

The yawn caught James by surprise.  “Shit.  Sorry,” he mumbled from behind his hand.

“Oh, don’t be, lad,” Robbie said guiltily, and stood up.  “I’m keeping you from your bed.  You should get some sleep.  I can sort myself out.”

“I’m fine, really.”  James stood beside Robbie.  “I’ll get the bedding.”

James took out the sheets and extra duvet for the spare bed.  He squeezed them onto the top of the desk in the room, beside Robbie’s opened suitcase.  Robbie had draped the suit bag over the chair and was starting to unzip it.

“You should leave that for the morning, when you're fresher,” James suggested.

“I'll need this suit for work in the morning.  If I hang it out now, the worst of the creases might drop out.  It’s the only one I brought with me tonight and I can’t see Innocent being too pleased if I was to turn up in jeans, can you?”

James snorted.  “I’d like to see you try.”

“I bet you would.”  Robbie shook out the jacket and shirt.  James thought they looked fine and said so.  Robbie made a small noise of agreement and took the two steps needed to reach the wardrobe.

“You’re not going to feel too cramped in here, are you?” James asked, concerned.  To James’s tastes, the room was perfect as a study or for the odd overnight stay, and not much more.

Robbie looked around the room.  “It's not that small, you know.”

“It's cosy.”

“It’s better than cosy.  The room I shared with my brother growing up wasn't much bigger than this.  Fifteen years we had together in that room.  Good years, for the most part.”  He looked at James.  His face radiated contentment.  “You did all right for yourself with this place, lad.”

“I did, didn't I?”  James folded his arms and leant against the doorframe.  From there, he could see both the room and most of the open plan flat. 

When his promotion had come through, James had considered looking for another post away from Oxford.  After several restless nights, he accepted Oxford was to be his home.  Within a week, to both his and Robbie’s astonishment, he had set about looking for a property to buy.  For the first time in his adult life, he was willing to set down roots.  The flat’s location wasn't quite as convenient to work as his last place had been, but nor was it inconvenient.  For the sake of being able to afford a place with two bedrooms, he could live with it.

After James had signed the contract, the seller had offered him the bulk of the furnishings for a single small sum.  She was immigrating to Canada and was only taking a few select items with her.  The remaining pieces were predominantly IKEA, and not of the student-priced, last-two-years variety.  Since all the furnishings offered were in either white or birch, James had immediately recognised that they would go well with the few items of furniture he did own, and he had jumped at the offer.  All he'd had to purchase was a new bed and mattress.  With Robbie and Laura's help, it had taken barely half a day for him to move in.  If it hadn’t been for the multiple boxes of books, it would probably have taken less than an hour, including travelling time.

Those books now sat proudly on multiple bookshelves throughout the flat.

In addition to the desk and chair, the second bedroom held a rather utilitarian, yet surprisingly comfortable single sofa bed, a small storage unit that doubled as a bedside table, a lamp, and a compact two-doored wardrobe.  James had outlined to Robbie his plans to convert it to a study, so he could work from home there rather than have papers spread out over the small dining table or his coffee table, and explained how he would like to move the sofa bed to the generous living area ‘for unexpected guests.’  In a different world, he could have imagined Robbie spending nights there, much as James had spent many nights on Robbie's couch.  Now Robbie was here.

He became aware of Robbie watching him.  Robbie's expression said he was trying to figure out what was going on in James's head.  James couldn't have that.  Robbie would be out the door like a shot if he knew James’s true feelings.  He spotted a small collection of toiletries on the unit beside the bed.  Robbie must have unpacked those before remembering his suit.

“I'll put those in the bathroom for you,” James said, crossing the room in three long, determined strides, suddenly very self-conscious.  “Make a bit of room in the cabinet.  Then I’ll give you a hand with the bed.”

“James.”  Robbie’s palm landed warmly against James’s chest.  “I know how the sofa bed works,” he said quietly.  “You showed me once before, remember?  You get off to bed; it’s past 1am.  I can manage.”

With a nod of acknowledgement, James turned to leave.  “Goodnight, Robbie.”

“‘Night, James.  And James?”  James stopped with one hand on the doorframe and looked back at Robbie.  “Thanks again, man.  I really appreciate this.”

With Robbie’s toiletries safely stowed in the bathroom cabinet, James headed to his bedroom with a smile on his face, which faded as he closed his door and pressed his back against it.  The sofa bed clicked and creaked, followed by the hollow thunk as it locked into place.  James turned out his light and lay down on top of the bed.

He curled up on his side, tucking his knees close to his chest.  When Robbie and Laura had first got together, James had been hurt and in denial.  Teaching himself to let Robbie go, and any fantasies he had entertained that Robbie would one day want him, had been painful and necessary.  James had made some rash decisions along the way – and had the scars from the blisters on his feet to remind him daily – however, he had become reconciled to the situation and then, over time, had found himself genuinely happy for them.  That said, it hadn’t stopped James from holding onto a small hope that one day in the future things might change.

Now the man he loved (and James loved Robbie; of that, there was no doubt in James’s mind) was under his roof and in his bed, after a fashion, for an indeterminate period.  James faced the very real danger of hope regaining strength and lowering his defences.  If that happened, there was every possibility Robbie would see the truth James didn’t want him to see.  For his own peace of mind, James knew he should have told Robbie he could only stay for a few days.  Except that would have meant coming up with a plausible lie, as he couldn't very well tell Robbie that his being in James's flat like this was practically wish-fulfilment.  James had had enough of lies and secrets where Robbie was involved.  He'd come too close to losing the man from his life in the past and he wasn't going to let it happen now. 

The sensible thing to do would be to sit up all night researching suitable flats that had viewings that weekend and then praying desperately that he and Lizzie didn’t get a major case until Monday.  No, not sensible, but far wiser than waiting for fate to trip him up.  The longer Robbie stayed under James’s roof, the greater the risk of James saying or doing something they might both come to regret.

Suggesting Robbie make amends with Laura and move back until he found a place of his own was also sensible – and highly suspicious after telling the man he could stay as long as he needed.  Robbie would see straight through James and that would be that.  No.  James had hidden his true feelings for years.  He would simply have to continue to do so until Robbie was ready to move on.

 


	2. Friday, 30 January 2015 – Day 1 of the investigation

Lizzie Maddox read over the notes she’d made.  Satisfied she had taken all necessary actions, she closed the cover on the tablet.  She shivered as the chilled, damp air seeped in under her collar and cuffs.  Placing the tablet between her knees, she quickly rewrapped her scarf to cover her head and neck and tucked the ends inside her jacket.

“Bloody weather,” she muttered, retrieving the tablet and hugging it close to her chest.  Yesterday had been one of those rare January days where the temperature had climbed to double Celsius figures and the sky was cloudless, bright, and blue.  What Lizzie considered a perfect winter’s day had resulted in a bitter freezing fog this morning.  The sun would have to be a lot higher in the sky before there was any possibility of the air clearing.

She glanced over her shoulder.  Behind her, beyond the crime scene perimeter, the SOCO team moved around methodically, lighter shapes in an all-grey world.  Visibility was so low, had they stood still, she would have thought they were small trees and not living, breathing people.  Only a sharp canine nose could have found the body where it lay this morning, propped against a tree facing a children’s playground.  Unless the man who called it in was involved.  Having spoken to him, Lizzie’s gut instinct said no, but this was Oxford and she’d learnt things weren’t always as they first seemed.

She stifled a yawn.  The attendant in the BP station on Cowley Road where she’d stopped for Costa Express had been annoyingly cheerful, reminding her it was Friday, and the weekend was only a day away.  If he’d sung the last four words, Lizzie would have cautioned him for… she would have thought of something, perhaps public indecency.  For Lizzie, today was effectively her Monday, the first day back on rotation after a one-day break and the early morning start hadn’t helped matters.  Lizzie couldn’t remember when she’d last had a proper weekend or a decent lie-in.

She walked carefully over the icy grass, following the designated path to the footpath.  She ducked under the police tape, and then headed up to where she’d parked her car.  It sat on a slight tilt, half on the road, half off.  On the passenger seat sat two insulated travel mugs in a cardboard cup holder, one a flat white with an extra shot of espresso, was half-drunk.  The other – an Americano, extra hot, one sugar, sans milk – awaited the arrival of DI Hathaway.  Lizzie kept the mugs in her car specifically for call outs at ungodly hours.  A decent coffee, even one not quite hot enough, was invaluable when it came to sweetening DI Hathaway’s mood.

Lizzie stamped her feet against the cold.  She tilted her head to one side as a vehicle approached, and listened to the engine noise.  Definitely a passenger car.  She retrieved the coffees and walked towards the sound.

The silhouette of DI Hathaway was unmistakeable.  The line of his coat, ending at his mid-calf, made him seem even taller than he was as he walked across to meet Lizzie.  She handed over the coffee, receiving a quiet, heartfelt “thank you,” and fell in step beside her governor.  Growing up imitating her father’s long strides had been good training for keeping up with her long-limbed boss.  Hathaway sipped his coffee and gave her a nod.

Lizzie’s tablet was already unlocked in her hand.

“We have an adult male with no ID.  The body was found by John Smith–”

“John Smith?”  Lizzie didn’t need to look at her boss to see the raised eyebrows and pursed lips.

“Yes, John Smith.  The first officer on the scene checked his ID and noted down his driving licence details.  Mr Smith was walking his dog a little after 6am when the dog dragged him off the path.  Mr Smith literally fell beside the body when the dog pulled him over.”

Hathaway stopped walking.  “Isn’t that the synopsis of a YouTube video?”

Lizzie shook her head.  “Well, possibly, but not this time.”  She hadn’t believed the statement either until she had seen Mr Smith, all five foot, three inches of him, and Eustace, his gigantic English Mastiff, which she explained to Hathaway.  “It was a bloody big dog, sir, and SOCO say the footprints, paw prints, and scuff marks appear to back up his story.  Mr Smith was shaken but uninjured, and he’s been taken to the station to make a formal statement and give DNA and prints for elimination purposes.”

“And the dog?”

“It went to the station with him, sir.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No, sir.  Animal control were going to hold the dog until Mr Smith was finished at the station but the dog and Mr Smith both became very distressed at being separated.  PC Baines said he was happy to have the dog in the car, and I cleared it with the Duty Sergeant.”

“Just as long as you explain it to Innocent if she finds out.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes.  “That’s exactly what the Duty Sergeant said.  Yes, I will.”  She looked back at her tablet.  “Anyway, as I was saying, Mr Smith found the victim and immediately called the police.  The first responders found him on the swings with the dog at his feet.  They followed Mr Smith and Eustace’s tracks to the body and immediately set up a perimeter and waited for SOCO.  SOCO was already here when I arrived, so I haven’t been able to look at the victim myself.”

“Were Smith’s tracks the only ones around the body?”

“Yes.  The officers took photos of the scene as they found it.”

“Police issue cameras or their phones?”

“One phone, sir; no camera in the car.  The phone’s been bagged for evidence.”

“No vehicles around that might belong to the victim?”

“Not in the immediate vicinity of the park.  Uniform are checking the primary school across the road and the Leys Leisure Centre car park, just in case.”

The air around them seemed to crackle as they marched through the mist and past the deserted playground.  The tall rope space net resembled a giant, ice-encrusted spider web reaching desperately for the invisible sun.  Other pieces of play equipment looked like ancient instruments of torture.  Even the swings were foreboding.  The dull glow of handheld torches and portable floodlights indicated their destination.

Lizzie and James stopped at the crime scene tape.  A huddle of bodies approximately 15 metres from the footpath marked the spot where their victim lay, surrounded by the pathologist, her assistant, and a PC moving a spotlight around to instructions Lizzie couldn’t quite hear. 

“Adult male, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

The white-suited individual examining the body stood up and beckoned them forward.  Lizzie sensed rather than heard Hathaway’s sigh.

“How much longer is Dr Hobson away for, sir?”

“She’s due back at work in a fortnight,” Hathaway replied flatly.

“Right.”  Another two weeks of running interference.  It wasn’t as though either she or Hathaway had any specific complaints about Dr Trent, the locum pathologist; she was very good at her job, thorough and efficient.  However, she wasn’t Dr Hobson.  She couldn’t read Hathaway the way Inspector Lewis and Dr Hobson did, and that had caused more than a little friction.  Dr Allanah Trent also had no time for Hathaway’s walking Wikipedia moments nor his apt quotes _._

It was simply unfortunate that Dr Hobson’s decision to clear her accumulated leave and “spare the number crunchers any further headaches over leave liability,” now overlapped with the twelve-week teaching assignment at the training centre DI Lewis had started in December.  That DI Lewis and Dr Hobson had parted ways in September had quickly become common knowledge, as had the news that Lewis had moved into Hathaway’s flat.  At the time, everyone had assumed both developments would be temporary; four months later, no one was anticipating a change.

Lizzie didn’t blame the good doctor for wanting to get away from Oxford for a time.  It couldn’t have been easy knowing everyone was either commiserating with you, or talking about you and your ex-boyfriend and speculating on the reasons for your relationship split.

Lizzie took a deep breath.  She could do this, though she couldn’t help wishing they had DI Lewis with them.  Lizzie had become accustomed to having the two DIs together.  They were like chalk and cheese sometimes – no, that wasn’t right.  They were wine and cheese.  Two very different individuals, but when you put them together, very often magic happened.

She watched Hathaway press his shoulders back before he held up the tape for her.  He then followed her underneath it.  The pathologist approached them, her posture as rigid as Hathaway’s.  Lizzie was on alert.

“DI Hathaway, DS Maddox.”  Dr Trent nodded a stiff greeting.  “We have an adult male, in his late forties, possibly early fifties.  He has a single stab wound to the chest.  All indications are he was killed elsewhere and then brought here.  There’s no weapon, no blood other than that on the body, and no ID.  There are fibres on his face and in his hair, possibly from a blanket or a car boot lining.  We may get something useful from them.  Based on what I can determine here, he’s been dead less than two hours.”

“Two hours?”

“He’s still warm, Inspector Hathaway.”  Lizzie winced at Dr Trent’s slightly smug, triumphant tone.  DI Hathaway would no doubt view it as a challenge.

Which he did.  “So you’re saying he couldn’t have been killed earlier but held inside a heated building or vehicle a period of time before he was left here?”

Trent faltered.  “That is a possibility,” she confirmed grudgingly.  “I’ll know more once I have him back at the morgue.”

“Very good, Dr Trent.”  There was no sense of victory in Hathaway’s voice.  The slight lengthening of Hathaway’s neck, pushing him to his full height, was the only indication that Hathaway knew he had won this round.  Dr Trent would have understood the gesture all too well, having been the recipient on no less than four other occasions.  Hathaway turned his attention to the crime scene perimeter.  “Have SOCO cleared the area?”

“Immediately around the victim, yes.”  Hathaway stepped forward.  “DI Hathaway?”  It was a command.

Hathaway pivoted around, his impatience thinly veiled.  “Yes?”

Dr Trent squared her shoulders.  Lizzie tensed.  _Dear god, not round two?_

The doctor cleared her throat.  “Please let me know when I can have the body removed.”

Lizzie almost felt sorry for her.  Almost.  Trying to go one up on Hathaway was never the wisest course of action, which the doctor had obviously failed to learn after their previous case.

Hathaway nodded.

The doctor muttered, “How do you put up with him?” to Lizzie before she hurried off.  Lizzie bit back her smile when Hathaway quietly snorted.

“It’s a question I’ve asked myself several times, DS Maddox.”  A smile twitched the corners of Hathaway’s mouth.

“Tony says I’m a glutton for punishment, sir.”

“That would explain a lot.”  Hathaway looked back up the footpath to the wall of swirling grey where the road and the school across the way should have been visible.  “So, with only Smith and Eustace’s tracks evident, I think we can safely say the body was placed here before this frost settled – whether he was dead at the time or not is yet to be determined – and by at least two individuals.”

“One person could have carried him using a fireman’s lift.”

Hathaway pointed toward the road.  “There’s no indication anyone drove a vehicle up here.  That’s around eighty, ninety metres.  That’s a bloody long way for one person to carry an adult body.  They would have increased the chance of someone seeing them, despite it being night.  It would have been easier and quicker to leave him against the fence a few metres away from the road.  No, I think we’re looking for at least two people.”

Lizzie scanned the path from the road to the crime scene.  “Why stick him in the middle of a park at all and risk being seen?  It doesn’t make sense.”

Hathaway looked at her sadly.  “When does murder ever make sense?”

They approached the body, walking around the tree as they did so.  Lizzie nearly ran into Hathaway’s back.  He had stopped dead and was staring at their victim.  The man was slumped against the tree.  His head lolled backwards, dead eyes staring at the tree canopy above.  The lower jaw hung open.  He wore a dark blue blazer and jeans.  A rip above a large rust red stain marred the left-hand side of his chambray shirt.  His legs stuck straight out in front of him and his hands sat in his lap.  Curiously, he only had socks on his feet.

Hathaway hadn’t moved.  Lizzie stepped around him and waved a hand in front of his face.  “Sir?” 

“Bloody hell.”  It was a stunned whisper.  “Monkford.”

“You know him?”  Lizzie looked at the man’s face again.  He was unfamiliar to her.

“Simon Monkford.  Con man and…”  Hathaway took a step back and slowly began to circle the dead man and the tree.  He wasn’t examining the scene; he had bowed his head and was clasping the travel mug tightly in both hands under his chin

“Sir?”  Lizzie prompted him again.

“He was put away in 2009 for a fatal hit-and-run in London.  I need you to get on to HMP Bullingdon.  I want to know when he was released and why we weren’t informed.”

“Bullingdon?  If he was convicted in London wouldn’t he–”

“He was sent to Bullingdon.  I should know; I arrested him and was there at his sentencing.”

A whisper brushed at the back of Lizzie’s mind, a memory unwilling to surface.  It would come later, as long as she didn’t try to force it.  “Yes, sir.”  Other questions burned in Lizzie’s mind as she studied Simon Monkford’s face.  There was more to Hathaway’s connection to this Monkford than simply being the arresting officer.  A sense – women’s intuition, a copper’s nose, gut feeling, whatever you wanted to call it – warned her to keep those questions to herself for now.  She’d probably be able to find what she needed in the official files.  It wouldn’t be snooping, she told herself; Monkford was a victim and his movements and history would require examination.  Still, Lizzie couldn’t shake the feeling she was on sensitive ground.

“Sir–”  She looked around to discover Hathaway was already heading back towards the carpark.  Lizzie ran to catch up.

“Lizzie, I have to go and talk to Rob– DI Lewis before this hits the news and before CS Innocent hears about it.”  He handed her the empty mug.  “Dr Trent!”  He caught up to the pathologist.  “I’ve seen what I need to.  If the supervising SOCO’s happy, the body can be removed.”  He marched towards his car without a backward glance.

Lizzie stopped Hathaway at his car.  Her concern was rising.  “You didn’t tell Dr Trent who the man was.  It’ll speed things up–”

“I don’t want to speed things up.”  Hathaway gripped the car door handle.

“Why do you need to see DI Lewis so urgently?”

“I’m sorry, Lizzie.  I can’t explain right now.  Dr Trent will identify him soon enough – he’s in the system.  My silence won’t slow matters down that much, though I’d be grateful if you were to keep it under your hat until the formal identification comes through.”

“Yes, sir.”  She bit back the ‘but’.  Waiting for formal ID even if you were confident of a victim’s identity was a fairly standard practice.  The expression of worry and anger on Hathaway’s face, and his almost desperate need to see Lewis were of greater concern to Lizzie.  What the bloody hell was going on?

“Do you need me to come with you, sir?  To see DI Lewis?”

“I, er… no.  I think…  No.  Thank you.”

Lizzie juggled the mugs and her tablet.  “Is there anything else you want me to do, sir?  After following up with Bullingdon.”

“Start the usual lines of enquiry, CCTV, and so on.  See what you can find out about Monkford’s movements after he was released; anything could be significant.  And follow up with the pathologist if I’m not back.”

“Yes, sir.”

*******

James wasn’t looking forward to telling Robbie about Monkford.  The con man had nearly caused a rift between him and Robbie when they had first crossed paths, and James was not going to let that happen again, if he could help it.  One plus of Robbie’s stint at the training centre was that he had set hours.  It being Friday, James knew he wouldn’t start until 10am.  It had only just gone eight, so James was confident of finding him at home where he could tell him in private. 

With Robbie’s overall consultant status, Innocent had been prepared to ignore the not so small detail of Robbie living at James’s flat, at least in the short term.  This development, however, could force her to change her mind.  James hoped it wouldn’t.  As Robbie couldn’t have been involved in any way ( _nor me_ , James reminded himself), there was no conflict of interest as far as James was concerned.  He wasn’t an idealist, though; James was aware internal police politics could have a different view, and it would be up to him to convince Innocent and whoever else that he was the best person for the job.

Of course, given how their lives had now changed, Robbie might ask him to hand the case over so he could be seen to be impartial.  James knew he would do it without question, trusting Robbie’s judgment.  At the time of Monkford’s trial and sentencing, Innocent had done her best to ensure Robbie’s privacy and keep the link between him and Monkford on a need to know basis.  It had taken one reporter less than a week to make it common knowledge.  Perhaps James should offer to relinquish the case, to pass it to another team so they could prove beyond any reasonable doubt to everyone else that Robbie wasn’t involved.  It would make Innocent happy.  Not James, though.

James pulled up outside his building.  Robbie’s car was still where Robbie had left it the night before.  James rubbed at his temples, took a couple of deep breaths, and puffed out his cheeks.  Damn Monkford!  It wasn’t as though he’d expected Monkford to be in prison indefinitely – his release was always on the cards – but he had hoped the man would simply disappear from their lives.

*******

“Robbie?”

Lewis was surprised to hear the door open and James call out.

“Kitchen,” Robbie replied.  He stepped into the passage, wiping his hands on a tea towel.  “What brings you home at this time?”  He took a step towards James and frowned when James stepped backwards.  “James?  What’s the matter?”

“Simon Monkford’s body was found in Blackbird Leys Park, near the playground on the Pegasus Road side by a dog walker this morning.  He’d been stabbed.”  The words tumbled out.

“I see,” Robbie murmured.  He folded the tea towel and walked to the dining table, where he sat down.  James sat opposite him, the chair scraping roughly along the floor.

James reached across the table and placed his hand over Robbie’s hand.  “Robbie, I don’t know what happened.  Bullingdon should have notified you of Monkford’s release.  If I’d known he was getting out I would have…”

“I knew.”  Robbie’s quiet answer stopped James cold.  “I was advised of his parole hearing and subsequent release.  And he wasn't in Bullingdon.”  Robbie glanced up at James's small gasp of surprise.  “Kept his nose clean, didn't he?  Was transferred to Leyhill after a couple of years.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Robbie had hoped this day would never come.  Monkford’s release had caused enough grief between him and Laura.  He was angry at the idea the sod of a man might now come between him and James.  Why couldn’t the bloody man have disappeared?  “You were away on a training course when he was transferred.  What was it?  Accounting for non-accountants, or some bollocks like that?”

“That was last year.  Which year was–?”

“It’s not important; whatever it was, you weren’t around.  As for his parole...”  Robbie hunched in on himself.  “What was there to say?  That’s the bloody system.  Even if you’d known, what could you have done?”

“Been there for you?”

Robbie grunted and squeezed James’s hand.  “But you were.  You’ve been here for me since the day I came back to Oxford, even if it took me nine years or so to see it.”

 


	3. Late October 2014 – Three months before the murder of Simon Monkford

When the news came on at ten, Robbie switched off the telly and went to the kitchen to make himself tea and toast to quell the growling of his stomach; he'd been too tired to bother making anything when he'd arrived home, but a few hours of mindless telly had given him his second wind.  In the lead up to Halloween, there'd been an unanticipated spike in drugs on the street and, as a result, in the number of cases being handled in CID.  With officers on leave and flu doing the rounds, everyone had been working long days.  Robbie and James had been running with separate cases and had only seen each other in passing over the last few days.  With his case now in the hands of the CPS, Robbie was looking forward to a day off.

James shuffled through the front door just as Robbie had everything ready, and slumped against the worktop with a thud and a grunt that made Robbie wince.  He looked at James's face, troubled by what he saw.  When he had last spoken to James properly, the lad had looked more fed up than tired.  Now, however, there was the definite shadow of stubble on his chin, and the circles under his eyes stood out against a face a shade or two paler than normal.  James had let his hair grow out a bit, and it was spiking in all directions, no doubt the result of James’s fingers pushing through it in frustration.  Robbie unexpectedly found himself overwhelmed by feelings of protectiveness and concern.

“Bloody hell, man,” Robbie articulated around a mouthful of toast.  “When did you last see your bed?”

“Yesterday morning,” James mumbled, casually taking the piece of half-eaten toast from Robbie's hand.  “I think.  What day is it today?”

“Thursday.”  Robbie suppressed a shiver as James took a bite of toast, his lips touching where Robbie's had been moments before.  He didn’t want to think what that might signify right now, but he had a growing sense he wasn’t going to have a choice.  James chewed and swallowed, and then picked Robbie's mug of tea up off the worktop.  Robbie waited while James took a drink.  He was a little startled when James handed the cup to him rather than putting it down.

James nodded slowly.  “Yep, yesterday morning.  But,” he said emphatically, drawing himself away from the worktop, stretching up to his full height, “it's case closed and essential paperwork done.  I sent Lizzie home early, and we’re going to finish preparing the file for the CPS on Monday.  Tonight, I'm going to sleep until I wake, and then I'm going to make us both a decent breakfast because I found out you don't have to go in tomorrow morning either.”  James looked at him with an expression of happiness, satisfaction, and longing.

Robbie's subconscious slapped him as it pointed out that James's obvious sense of wellbeing had nothing to do with the pending fry-up and everything to do with Robbie’s presence.  His appetite faded as he acknowledged the same yearning in himself as he had seen on James's face.

Robbie had long been fond of James; he wouldn't have denied it if anyone asked him straight out (no one ever had) but what he was experiencing now were not the feelings of a father towards a son, nor former governor to former bagman.

Robbie pondered this as James finished off the first piece of toast and took a second, and resisted the urge to shift his feet to match the tilt that had just occurred in his world.  He found he couldn't take his eyes off James as he ate, and took a drink of tea to cover his face, all too aware his lips were now touching where James's had been.

James held out one hand and Robbie passed him the mug.  Robbie could only see James's eyes and the top half of his face over the rim of the mug as James took a drink.  His eyes met Robbie's and that seemed to be James's undoing.  The tops of his cheeks flushed and he put the mug down with a clatter, slopping tea onto the worktop.  Robbie could only imagine the expression on his own face.

“I, er, shower,” James stammered.  “I need a shower.”  With his head lowered, James rushed out of the kitchen.

Robbie leant heavily against the worktop, hanging over the sink, and tried to think through the swirl of emotion within.  How long had James felt this way, and why hadn’t Robbie picked up on it before?  Had it had anything to do with James’s ‘not a pilgrimage’?  “You can be a thick bugger at times, Robbie Lewis,” he muttered.  It may not have been a major reason, but the odds were it had been a factor.  He heard the shower start and had to stop himself imagining James naked under the water.  It wasn’t as though he’d never seen James near naked before, but with these new feelings just under his skin, he was responding in a way that wasn’t entirely appropriate. 

Robbie wasn't completely blind, nor was he naive.  He'd noticed certain behaviours from James, signs that should have alerted him there was more than friendship in James's heart.  Robbie had often laid a hand on James's shoulder if he was standing behind him at his desk, or ushered James to walk ahead of him with a gentle touch to the small of his back.  Now James had taken to returning those gestures whenever they were away from the station, his fingers lingering, warm on Robbie's skin even through his clothes.

Robbie had become more aware of James leaning slightly into him when they shared a bench at the pub, or were slouched against a wall while James had a cigarette.  On several occasions, James had even dozed off on the couch with his head against Robbie's shoulder.  Robbie had welcomed the warmth and sense of comfort and belonging it gave him, and he always felt a small sense of loss when James, on waking, would apologise and swiftly go to bed.

Robbie had told himself it was because of the close familiarity of living under the same roof for a couple of months.  He thought that once he found himself another flat, he and James would return to their usual footing with each other.

Now, he understood he couldn't have been more wrong, nor did he want it to change.  But why this night, why this moment?  With swift, reeling clarity, Robbie understood his bond with James was probably a large part of the reason he and Laura had never settled as well as they thought they might.  He was never supposed to be with Laura.  “Are you for me?”  It would seem the first words he'd spoken to James would carry more truth than anyone had ever anticipated.

There was no doubt in Robbie's mind where James's heart lay.  James couldn't have made his feelings any more clear if he'd nailed a declaration to the front door.  But what did Robbie feel?  It couldn't be lust; yes, he’d had a physical response but he hadn’t had the urge to drag James off to bed.  Was it love?  If forced to give a yes or no answer ten minutes ago, he would have said yes, though he would have been thinking in terms of paternal or brotherly love, not romantic love, the love of attraction.  But now.  _Christ!_   How does your world turn upside down and inside out in a matter of seconds all because of one look?

He could imagine Val chuckling with satisfaction; “I told you so,” she would have said.  She had understood Robbie better than he’d ever known himself.

Silence flooded the flat as the shower stopped.  Robbie watched the door.  A cupboard door opened and closed.  Judging by the squeak, James had taken another clean towel.  Robbie had been meaning to fix that door for over a week.  He heard water running again.  Not the hiss of the shower this time, so it would be the vanity sink.  Robbie walked quietly to the bathroom door where he heard the familiar soft scrape of a razor on bristles.

He headed back to the living area and sat himself in the middle of the couch to wait.  Robbie knew he wouldn't sleep until they cleared the air, and he doubted James would either.  That was the last thing James needed right now, as exhausted as he obviously was.  He would have to stop James before James shut himself away in the bedroom.

Robbie stretched his arms out along the back of the couch.  After a second or two, he folded them across his chest.  He looked at the empty seat cushions on either side of him.  In all the years they'd sat this way together, James had never given any sign he was uncomfortable with the closeness, of essentially being forced to sit side by side with Robbie when there was plenty of room for them both to spread out.  It wasn't because James was shy about asking Robbie to move up, either.  Robbie remembered several occasions where he'd plopped himself down in the corner seat, only to have James come along and wave him towards the middle. 

 _Oh, bugger._   Not only was James not bothered by the lack of space, he sought it out if it wasn't there.  He wanted to be physically close.  _You've been a blind sod._   It was a bit different now, though, wasn't it?  Tonight, anyway.  If he could convince James to sit and talk to him, the lad was probably going to want some space.  It was unlikely he'd want to be pressed thigh to thigh with Robbie.  Robbie shuffled to the corner seat furthest from the bathroom.  That way, James wouldn't have to walk past him to sit down.  Robbie settled himself back down.

Robbie rose to his feet when he heard the snick of the bathroom door lock and the click of the light switch.  He heard the bathroom door open and James stepped out.

“James, wait.”  James hovered in the passageway between the bedroom and the bathroom.  He was dressed in boxer shorts and a t-shirt – just as he had been the night Robbie had arrived at his front door.  His cheeks were pink and he stared at a spot over Robbie’s shoulder.  “You haven’t finished your tea and toast.”  Robbie tipped his head in the direction of the kitchen.

“It’s your tea and toast.”  The pink turned to red and spread over James’s face.

“I’m more than happy to share.”

James was dismayed.  “Robbie, I’m sorry…  I was tired and I wasn’t thinking.”

“I realise that,” Robbie said gently.  “How about you stop overthinking now and come and sit with me for a bit.  Please.”

James's upper body stiffened into a posture that screamed, “There's nothing to say.  I know I've fucked up.”

Robbie sat back down, angling his body towards James with one bent leg up onto the middle cushion.  “You don't have to say anything, but I'd like you to hear what I have to say.  Can you do that for me?  Please?”  It was low emotional blackmail, and Robbie hated himself a little.  Not only was it not a normal part of his nature, he knew James would feel compelled to comply.  The last thing he wanted to do was manipulate James, but sometimes you had to use desperate measures for a swift result.

James must have been feeling guiltier than Robbie had estimated because he looked as though he was going to turn away.  Had they not been in James's flat, Robbie could almost believe James was about to walk out the front door, properly dressed or not.  _Bloody hell._   He just might anyway.

“If you walk away, I'm just going to get up and follow you,” were the first words to come to Robbie's lips.  _You blithering idiot!_ his mind yelled.

To Robbie's amazement, and to the obvious astonishment of James, it worked.  James walked stoically to the couch and sat down at the far end.  He turned a wary eye on Robbie.

“I don't want pity.”

“Since when have I pitied you?”

James shrugged.  “You're not going to be kind to me, either, or let me down gently.  Because being kind is what you do; it’s who you are, and unlike many others who appear to display kindness, you actually mean what you say, and I don't...I still don't know how to appreciate that properly.  I don't want your kindness.  I want your honesty.”

Lewis bowed his head for a moment before meeting James’s challenging gaze again.  “It’s not kindness to play with someone’s heart, to… downplay what they’re feeling.  I’d never do that to you, James.  If I honestly believed there was no future for us, I’d tell you.  I would never give you false hope.”

James's eyes flashed bright with expectation at Robbie's words and then darkened with regret almost immediately.

“Robbie.”  James huffed out a pensive breath.  “I know you mean it for the best, but what I want, you can’t give me.”

“Why not?”

“ **Why not?** ”  James stared at him incredulously.  “You really have to ask?”

Robbie felt wretched for putting James on the spot; however, given what he was ready to confess, he had to hear James articulate his reasoning.  “Why can’t I give you what you want, James?”  He bit on his bottom lip as James’s jaw worked itself open and shut several times.

“Because I’m gay,” James whispered.  “And you’re not.”

Robbie scooted across the middle of the couch and took hold of James’s hand, tightening his grip when James attempted to pull away.  “No, I’m not gay–”

“Which is why–”

“I’m bisexual.”

James’s head snapped around with an audible crack.  “No you’re not!”

“I am.”

“But…  You’ve never…”  James blinked rapidly, his long lashes flashing under the light like a hummingbird’s wings.  “Are you sure?”

Robbie nodded.  “James–”

“Wait.”  James squeezed Robbie’s hand tightly and looked away.  “I need a moment.”  Robbie silently counted to thirty before James raised his head again.  “How long have you identified as bisexual?”

“I was about sixteen or so when I worked out I wasn’t quite the same as most of my mates.  I was keen on a few girls, like they were – even if the thought of talking to them terrified me – but at the same time, there were a couple of lads I would have liked to get to know… better… and if I’m honest, I was more interested in them than the girls.  Wasn’t worth me life to try anything, though, so I’ve no idea what would’ve or could’ve happened.  Then a few years down the track, I met Val.  I didn’t look at anyone else after that.”

“Did Mrs Lewis know?”

Robbie smiled sheepishly and nodded.  “You could say it was Val who told me I was bisexual.”

“What?”

“Val used to buy all these different women’s magazines, and she loved doing the quizzes and things.  Sometimes she’d ask me the questions.”

James laughed.  It was a good sound.  “Did you answer honestly?” he said with a querying smile.

“I did, actually; Val insisted on it.  Most of the time it was a load of bollocks and we’d have a good laugh at the result.  Then she did this one particular quiz – I remember it vividly because she was eight months pregnant with Lyn at the time – all about who and what you found most attractive.”  Robbie frowned.

James’s eyebrows arched upwards.  “You make it sound ominous.”

“It wasn’t at first.  Some of the questions didn’t even make sense in the context of the quiz.  I knew I was in trouble when she was reading the result and looked like she was going to be ill.  You could have knocked me down with a feather when she asked me which blokes I’d fancied.”

James’s eyes grew wide and curious.  “What did you say?”

“I didn’t know what to say – one of the blokes had been in her brother’s rugby team.  Thing is, not answering her gave her an answer anyway.  She stared at me as if I’d grown a second head then hammered me with questions.  Had I kissed a bloke, did I look at blokes now, did I wish she was a bloke, had I married her to protect myself?”

“Bloody hell.”

“You’re not kidding.  It took me nearly half an hour to assure her I’d married her because I loved her for exactly who she was.  When she’d calmed down, she asked me why I’d never told her I was bisexual.  I told her truthfully I’d never thought much about it, let alone given it a name.”

“You obviously sorted things out in the end.”

“Yeah, we did.  I tried to make sure she always knew how much I loved her, and that I wasn’t going to leave her for anyone, man or woman.”  Robbie huffed.  “I knew she was fine with the whole bisexual thing when she started teasing me mercilessly about Morse.”

James sat bolt upright, dropping Robbie’s hand.  “Chief Inspector Morse?” he exclaimed.

“The one and only.  Every time I ended up getting home after midnight, or if Morse had called me away at dinnertime, she’d ask me how our date went, and did we plan on a formal ceremony or would we run away to Gretna Green.  I dread to think what could have happened if Morse had ever found out.”

“The mind boggles,” James murmured.  “After…when you were on your own again…sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”

“Go on.”  Robbie rocked, nudging James’s arm.  “I’ve just revealed my deepest secret, and if you, of all people, don’t have questions, I’d be shocked.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

“It means I know you, and that’s not a bad thing.”  Robbie held James’s examining gaze.

Seemingly satisfied, James continued.  “After Mrs Lewis–”

“Val.”

A smile of thanks flickered across James’s lips.  “After Val passed away, were you ever attracted to a man at any point?  I know you had a few attempts at…dating…when you were first back in Oxford: I seem to recall you spending some time with a sleep specialist and the mother of a key witness.”

“Bloody hell, you’ve got a long memory.”

“I’ve always been very observant,” James remarked.  His eyes flickered away from Robbie.  “Though in your case, I may have been a little more attentive about…certain things.”  His voice dropped to a murmur and he blushed.

 _Buggering hell.  Was James…?  For me?  Even back then?_  “You hardly knew me back then,” Robbie said in wonder.

James turned his body slightly towards Robbie, lifting his head as he did.  “I knew everything I needed to know about you after the Regan Peverill case.  The past nine years have been about discovering your depths.”

“Is that why you asked Innocent to give me first refusal when you needed a governor?  Because you…” … _were attracted to me?_

James shook his head.  “I knew I could learn so much from you, and not just about policing and being a bloody brilliant detective.  You taught me more about compassion, kindness, and fairness than the church ever had.  When I realised I was…  I denied my feelings for a long time – they were inappropriate.  In time, I learned to live with them.”

Robbie blinked.  “Some brilliant detective I turned out to be.  I never had a clue.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”  James flashed an apologetic smile.  He flattened his palms against his lap.  “So.  _Have_ you ever been attracted to a man since you returned to Oxford?”

Robbie considered his answer.  “No, none.  Though now I wonder if that’s because you were there, outshining them all.”  James blushed beautifully, as Robbie hoped.  “You should know,” Robbie continued, “I’m not ashamed of being bisexual.  I never said or hinted at anything before because it’s only one part of me.  It doesn’t define who I am, and until tonight, it wasn’t relevant to anything.”

“I don’t like labels either,” James murmured.

“Figured that out about you a while ago.”  Robbie managed a half smile.  “I only regret it took me until tonight to figure out the rest.  About you and me both.  You’re the only person I’ve ever told, you know,” Robbie said.  “Apart from Val, you’re the only other person who’s ever known.  Reckon it’ll come as a bit of a shock to Laura and Innocent, never mind Lyn.”

“Only if you tell them.”

“How can I not tell them now?  They’ll work it out quickly enough.”

James tipped his head to one side.  “Why should they?”

Robbie had the sickening sense he’d been working towards a different end story to James.  “Well, because if you and I… With tonight’s events, I thought you…  It seemed that we, er, we were of a like mind, and um… I mean, if you’re not, we don’t have to…”  He puffed out his cheeks in confusion.  “Bollocks.”

James’s face was a marvel as he worked through Robbie’s stammered jumble and reached a conclusion that visibly both mystified and delighted him.

“You want… you’re willing to…”  James took Robbie’s hands in his own and straightened in his seat, pushing his shoulders back.  “You want me?”

“I thought that’s what I’d been saying.”  Robbie laughed quietly with relief.  “I can’t see any reason why we can’t give it a shot and make it work.”

“Lyn?” James asked gravely.

“She’s open-minded, our Lyn.  She just wants to see me happy.  Even if she’s not on board in the beginning, I’m sure she’ll come around when she sees I am.”

“Will I make you happy?”

“Are you planning on deliberately making me unhappy?”

“No.”  James scowled at him.  “Why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Then you’ll make me happy.”

“You’re very sure of that.”

“James, pet.”  Robbie smiled fondly as James’s eyes lit up at the term of endearment.  “I know what it is to love and to be in love; I had that with Val.  It’s not all sunshine and smiles, wine and roses.  It can be bloody hard work.  I know that what I feel for you is love, and if you’re willing to work at it, so am I.  We’ll annoy the hell out of each other at times; there’ll be arguments – I draw the line at throwing things, just so you know – there will be days when we’ll wonder if it’s worth the effort, but it will be.”  James’s eyes darkened, but it wasn’t with lust, not if the furrowed brow was any indication.  “What is it?  Which bee’s in your bonnet?”

“You say you’re bisexual, but you’ve never tested the theory, so to speak.  What if you’re wrong, what if you find you don’t like being with another bloke, kissing another bloke, and so on.”

Robbie looked James up and down slowly, feeling a slight thrill as James shivered under the scrutiny.  “There’ll be a few variations on what I’m used to though I can’t see them making a lot of difference in the long run.  Won’t know until I try, though, will I?”  He tugged at James’s hands, drawing him nearer.  “Are you willing to take a chance?  Or perhaps I should be asking you if you’ll regret _not_ taking a chance?”

James’s breathing had relaxed, and the set of his shoulders had softened.  His eyes searched Robbie’s face.  “You’re absolutely sure you want to do this?”

“With you, yes, I’m absolutely bloody sure, James.”  James still looked a little doubtful.  “May I kiss you, James Hathaway?”  Robbie held his breath; he let his eyes start to close and he leaned forward, moving closer to James.

James answered by meeting Robbie’s lips with his own.

*******

Robbie woke slowly to a room lit only by the glow from the various pieces of technology on standby power.  He was sat on the end seat of the couch, with James sprawled out along its length.  James’s head rested in Robbie's lap, and he was snoring softly.

Robbie gently stroked the blonde head.  If he could have bent down without disturbing James, he would have kissed the unlined brow.

 _So here we are,_ he thought fondly.

One kiss had quickly led to many and James’s hesitancy had given way to eager participation as Robbie had encouraged him along.  James’s firm body had become pliable under Robbie’s hands, as Robbie had tentatively explored the lean muscle under James’s t-shirt.  When James had straddled his lap, Robbie had marvelled at how easily James folded his body down to fit.  If James had still had any doubts, surely they’d been resolved.  Robbie had no reservations about his decision.

They’d broken apart, breathless, and James had settled himself on the seat beside Robbie.  He’d wrapped his arms around Robbie’s waist and settled his head on Robbie’s shoulder.  Robbie had hugged him in return, drawing him in as close as possible.  Robbie figured he must have fallen asleep first, as he couldn’t remember James moving.

Robbie lifted his hand away from James’s head as James began to stir.  He hadn’t meant to wake him.

James grunted as he moved around, slowly stretching.  He pushed a hand under his head, pressing down on Robbie’s thigh, and started to push himself upwards.  Robbie helped him up.  James was loose-limbed and relaxed until he looked up, blinked sleepily, and locked eyes with Robbie.

If James had one trait that could be called predictable, it was his tendency to overthink everything.  In the space of a breath after meeting Robbie’s gaze, James’s expression had gone from calm and settled to resembling a deer caught the in the headlights: tousled blonde hair, fair complexion, long neck – long, very kissable neck – eyes wide and round, and his whole body quivering slightly.  He was waiting for the worst to happen.  Words weren't going to work.  Robbie cradled the back of James’s neck, drew his slightly rigid, resisting body towards him, and kissed him thoroughly.  For a heartbeat, Robbie was afraid it wasn’t going to work, and then James melted against him.

Robbie gently broke the kiss.  “You all right, pet?”

“Never better.”  James rested his head against Robbie’s shoulder.

“I think we should move.”  Robbie’s lips brushed against James’s brow.  “If I sit here any longer I won’t be able to move at all in the morning.”

James nuzzled his neck before sitting back and looking at him affectionately.  “Come to bed with me?”

“Are you sure?”  Robbie didn’t want James to feel they had to rush into anything.  He wasn’t worried for himself; years of marriage had prepared him well… at least, he was reasonably confident they had.  “Thought you might want me to buy you a drink first.”

James chuckled softly and, seemingly reading Robbie’s mind, replied, “Your virtue is safe with me.  As much as I’d like to see where this could go tonight, I’m too bloody tired to do anything more than cuddle and sleep.”

Robbie’s last memory of that night was falling asleep, wrapped in James’s long-limbed embrace.

 

 


	4. Friday, 30 January 2015 – Day 1 of the investigation

James rubbed his other hand over his face.  “You should have told me about Monkford’s release,” he murmured.

Robbie exhaled sadly.  “I hoped he’d go away and we’d never have to worry about him.”  He gripped James’s hand tightly.  “I should have told when things changed between us; you had a right to know, but I thought it was too late.  Monkford was already out and I’d heard nothing about him since the parole hearing date, so I…  I’m sorry.”  He could tell James was thinking furiously.  “What’s bothering you most, love?”

“As the arresting officer, I should have received some sort of notification as well.  I can’t believe I missed it.”

“You didn’t.  Well, that is, you did, you just didn’t realise it.”

“What?”

“You were growing and thriving in your new position and building a solid working relationship with Lizzie.  I didn’t want you to be concerned with that toerag Monkford, so I told the parole board that I’d let you know myself.  When the official notification letters came in – the notification of the hearing and his release – I dealt with them and signed off on the release notification on your behalf.  I’m sorry.  It was out of line.  I told myself I was protecting you.”

“It’s all on file?”  James looked alarmed.

“It has to be, doesn’t it?  I couldn’t very well destroy or hide it.”  James’s shoulders slumped.  “James?”

“I’ve asked Lizzie to look into his release.  If she sees that letter, she’s going to think–”

“She’s not going to think anything.  She’s going to see my signature and note on the file and know I dealt with it.”  They stared at each other across the table.  The narrow creases across James’s brow deepened.  On a level he couldn’t explain, only feel, Robbie knew this wasn’t about the letter.  “What is it, pet?”

“I thought you’d be… you’d never rejoice at the death of another, but this is Monkford, and… I would’ve expected some sort of… response, reaction.  You’ve given nothing.”

Robbie loosened his hold on James’s hand though he didn’t let go.  “I’ve nothing to give.  I don’t feel anything.”

“But he…”  James floundered.

Robbie sighed inwardly.  “James, love...”

Laura hadn’t understood either.  Robbie wasn’t a trained psychologist, and couldn’t clinically explain the ins and outs of it, only that it was what it was.  The best he could do was tell James what he’d told Laura and hope James could interpret what Robbie didn’t have the words for.

“You found him and gave me the answer I never thought I’d have.  Hating the man, wanting some sort of revenge, would have been a waste of energy.  I can’t forget what he did, and I doubt I’ll ever forgive him, but I refused to lose any more of my life or my mind to him.  God knows, Lyn’s lost enough sleep over what the bastard did, and I’ve effectively lost my son because of it.  He’s not worth it, James.  Dead or alive, he doesn’t deserve my attention in any form.  Does that… do you understand?”

Robbie breathed a little easier when James gave a gentle smile, nodded, and started to rub his thumb along the side of Robbie’s hand.  Whether James truly understood or simply accepted it was how Robbie felt wasn’t important in that moment.

James raised Robbie’s hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.  “I’d better get back to the station and see what Lizzie’s found.  As long as there’s no connection between you and Monkford since his release, I can’t see any reason for Innocent to remove me from the case, although there’s always the possibility she might decide you not telling me he was out is a cause for concern and err on the side of caution.”

Robbie pressed his lips together.  “I think that’s the least of your worries.  If she finds out we’re sharing a bedroom and a bed, you’ll be off the case before you can say ‘Oi!’, and there’ll be hard questions for both of us.”

“There’s no reason for anyone to know.  You haven’t had any contact with Monkford; there’s nothing to look into.”  James blinked slowly and his expression changed.  “Please tell me you haven’t had any contact with Monkford,” he asked anxiously.

“I promise you I haven’t seen or spoken to Simon Monkford since his incarceration, never mind his release.”  Robbie hesitated.  “I have spoken to his sister, Christine Harper.”

“When?  About what?”

“She called me at the station around the time of the parole hearing.  Wanted to know if I knew.”

“And that’s all?”

“She asked me if I’d go and talk to him once he’d settled back in civilian life – made it sound like he was getting an honourable discharge.  I told her I had nothing to say to him, and he had nothing I wanted to hear.”

James nodded.  “Okay.  Are you going into work?”  The change of direction was unexpected, and Robbie frowned.  “I could stay here with you for a bit, if you like,” James continued. 

“Why wouldn’t I go in?  What’s happened is bloody awful, but it’s not as though I’m going to mourn the man.  You’d better get back to work before Lizzie starts looking for you.”

James started to rise and stopped, dropping back into the chair with a thump.  “Was Laura aware he was being released?”

“Ah, yeah.”  Robbie pulled on his ear.  “Yeah, she was.  I told her when I found out about the parole hearing.”

“Which was when, exactly?”

“Early September.”  Robbie waited for James to put the pieces together.

James’s eyes widened and his lips parted.  The penny had dropped.  James exhaled slowly.  “It’s what you fought about, wasn’t it?  The night you came here.”

Robbie nipped at his bottom lip with his teeth.  “Laura was there when I read the letter.  She wanted me to write a victim impact statement and attend the hearing.  When I said I wasn’t going to, she got angry with me, which was understandable in a way.  What Laura didn’t know was that I’d given a lot of thought to what I’d do when the situation arose; it was always when, never if.  Yes, he still had two years left of his sentence, but regardless of what I did or didn’t do, he’d be out one day – and I decided speaking out against his parole would have been a waste of my time and energy.  Val wouldn’t have wanted me to torture myself by facing that bastard again.  What if I had spoken up and he was paroled anyway?  I would have put myself, and my memories of Val, through the wringer for nothing.  Then Laura pushed it again, said if she was in my shoes it’s what she’d do.  I don’t really understand why it upset me as much as it did.  I snapped at her.  I told her she wasn’t me, she couldn’t know what I felt, and that… that staying in the house after Prague had been a mistake.”  James’s sharp intake of breath wasn’t a surprise.  Robbie had done the same the instant the words had left his mouth, realising he’d hurt Laura.  “I apologised to Laura; wasn’t her fault, and I’d had a couple of drinks, but I think we both knew there and then one of us needed to leave.”

“I think I understand now why you didn’t say anything,” James said gently.  “The last thing you needed was the possibility I might respond the same way Laura did.”

“Would you have?”

James shook his head glumly.  “Honestly, I don’t know.”

“Can you do me a favour, pet?  Could you let Laura know, before _his_ name’s all over the telly and papers?  She’ll give both of us a hard time if she finds out from the news then discovers it’s your case and you didn’t say anything.”

*******

James found himself agreeing to Robbie’s request.  It was highly irregular, yet James could see Robbie’s logic; it would be inappropriate for Robbie to give her the news, and had Laura been in Oxford, she’d be in the middle of the case herself.  “I’ll call her from the station after I’ve spoken to Innocent.  His name’s not going to hit the media that quickly.”  James leant across the table and kissed Robbie.  “I’d better get back and you need to finish getting ready for work.”

As he left the flat, James noticed Robbie’s coat hanging on the coat rack and his shoes on the coir mat beside it.  Robbie had arrived home later than expected the night before, having told James he was going to The Bear to catch up with an old friend from his Newcastle days who was spending a few days in Oxford.  James hadn’t thought anything of it at the time – he’d been at band practice and had been happy to know Robbie hadn’t been sitting at home on his own – however, looking at the shoes, James could see bits of dried cut grass clinging to the heels.  There was no grass near The Bear, nor along the route he and Robbie would usually take to get home from there.  Now knowing Robbie knew Monkford was out, James sighed inwardly.  Depending on Dr Trent’s findings, he might have to ask Robbie exactly what he did on his night out.

James walked slowly to his car to give himself thinking time.  Would it have made a difference if he’d known Monkford was out?  Probably not, was his conclusion.  James put himself in Robbie’s place.  The odds were he would have behaved exactly as Robbie had.

God, they were a right pair.

*******

Lizzie submitted the request for the case files in relation to Simon Monkford.  While she waited for them to be delivered, she contacted HMP Bullingdon.  After repeating her credentials to three different people, and growing increasingly frustrated, Lizzie eventually spoke to a man who identified himself only as Jim.

“Simon Monkford, eh?  Give me a minute.”  Tapping Lizzie identified as a keyboard older and bulkier than her own rattled down the earpiece.  “Here we are.  Simon Monkford, born 1964…ah, he was transferred to Leyhill in 2011.  Thought the name was familiar; he was one of the first transfers I had to oversee.”

“Leyhill?  Isn't that a Category D prison?”

“Yes.  If you look at his prison record, he was a pretty innocuous bloke.  To tell you the truth, I was surprised he was here as long as he was, but I suppose he’d done a runner once and the judge didn’t want to take a chance with him in the early days.”

Lizzie thought the man was overly chatty given his position, but this was a small gem worth chasing.

“He'd been an escapee?”

“No.  Not a runner like that.  He killed a woman in a hit and run and shot off to Canada for five years; that's what he was in for.  It's all in his record.”

Not such a gem after all.

“Right.  Sorry.  I haven't had a chance to read any of it yet.”  Lizzie had only glanced at the online records.  She preferred reading the hard copy files when they were available to reading off a computer monitor.  She found it was too easy to skip over words and details on a flickering screen, especially with the crap lighting in the office.  “I don't suppose you have a name and number I can talk to at Leyhill?  Speed things up a little?”

“Hang on a tick.”  The old keyboard clattered again.  “Can I ask why you're chasing up Monkford?”  Genuine curiosity tinged his voice.  “Wouldn't have thought he'd have much chance of coming to the notice of Oxford CID: apart from the manslaughter charge he was mostly a small time conman and thief really.”

“Just some routine enquiries,” Lizzie answered neutrally.

“Fair enough.”  If Jim was disappointed, Lizzie didn’t hear it.  “Right.  Here you go.”  He gave Lizzie a single number and two names.  “One desk, two officers – job share position, but either of them should be able to help you.”

“Cheers.”

Lizzie ended the call and quickly dialled Leyhill.  A tap on the door hailed the arrival of Tom, the Assistant Records Manager.

“Here you go, DS Maddox.  I was on my way out for coffee and said I’d drop these in.”  He placed the files on Lizzie’s desk, carefully shuffling the other papers and files aside.  “Is that all you need?”

Lizzie pointed to the phone at her ear, and opened the top file, making a show of checking the contents.  She mouthed her thanks to Tom and gave him a thumbs up as she waited for the call to be answered.  Tom was sweet, but if you gave him an opening, you'd find yourself stuck for at least twenty minutes, listening to the most recent adventures of his cat.

The phone rang harshly in Lizzie’s ear.  For several long seconds, Tom hovered on the other side of the desk.  Then with a smile and a sheepish wave, he was off.

“Thank God for that,” Lizzie muttered with relief.

“Hi, you’re talking to Becky.  How can–  Pardon?” came the surprised response.

Lizzie quickly recovered, identified herself, and explained to Becky what she wanted.  Before she could protest, she found herself on hold, listening to a loud yet tinny, echoing version of Pachelbel’s Canon.  She was considering putting the call on speaker to free up both hands, when she remembered how badly her phone distorted sound.  If she did, and DI Hathaway was to walk in, he’d be within his rights to arrest her for breach of peace.  Her only alternative was to cradle the handset between her shoulder and chin, with the earpiece pressed against her neck.  There, she would hear when the music stopped without subjecting herself or anyone else to aural torture.  She flicked open the top file and started scanning the documents.

Multiple aliases, a string of petty crimes that had slowly escalated until he’d driven a getaway car, fatally running down a pedestrian on the 19th of December 2002.  Valerie Susan Lewis.  Val Lewis.

“Oh, fuck,” Lizzie whispered.

She was still staring at the same page when Becky came back on the line. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting, DI Maddox.  Are you still there?” she asked when Lizzie didn’t answer.

“Yes, I’m here.”  Lizzie tore her eyes from the page, picked up her pen, and pulled a notepad towards her.

“Mr Monkford was released on parole on the 20th of October.  His record shows he was a model prisoner.  He worked in the Printing shop while he was here, and that’s all there really is to say about him.”

If Lizzie’s discovery hadn’t left her stunned, she would have snorted derisively.  A con man in a printing shop?  He’d probably started planning a career as a counterfeiter.  “And that was when he was due to be released?”

“Yes and no.  When he arrived here, his scheduled release date was the 28th of October 2016, but his solicitor put forward a request to the Parole Board.  The Board heard the request in mid-September, approved it, and an early release date was set.  Can I ask why you want to know about Mr Monkford?”

“I’m trying to ascertain why the arresting officer wasn’t notified of his pending release.  That’s usual procedure isn’t it?”

Keys tapped and pages turned.  “According to my records, a letter of notification of the hearing dated the 8th of September was sent to a DS James Hathaway.  Is he no longer with the Oxfordshire Police?”

“Yes, he is.  He’s DI Hathaway now, but that shouldn’t have made a difference.”  Lizzie frowned.  “I don’t suppose you could email me a copy of that letter?”  With the answer being yes, she gave Becky her email address.  “Can you tell me if anyone else was notified of the parole hearing or Mr Monkford’s release?”

“I’m afraid those details are confidential, DS Maddox.  To protect the victim and/or their family.”

“I understand.”  It was what Lizzie had expected.  She’d hoped be able to get the details from the files in front of her, not that she wanted her worst suspicions confirmed.  “You’ve been very helpful.”

The email arrived in Lizzie’s inbox as she replaced the phone handset.  She opened the attachment and frowned again.  Apart from the ‘DS’ in the address and ‘Sergeant’ in the salutation, all the other details on the letter were correct.  Was it possible Hathaway _had_ seen the letter and skipped its significance?  She doubted it.  Hathaway didn’t miss a trick.  There had to be some other reason.

Lizzie puffed out her cheeks and looked back at the open file.  Her eyes kept drifting back to the same name.  Valerie Lewis.

 


	5. April 2014 – Nine months before the murder of Simon Monkford

Lizzie arrived at the address Lewis had given to her.  She was a little concerned when she didn’t see any cars she recognised.  Even though Lewis had assured her Dr Hobson – Laura – knew she was coming, Lizzie double-checked Google Maps on her phone to confirm there was only one street which matched the address on the note in her pocket.

Lizzie stood on the footpath in front of the tidy semi-detached, cursing herself for not giving Laura a quick call to confirm the invitation herself.  She tugged her phone from the back pocket of her jeans.  She could send Laura a text now, couldn’t she?  Although if Laura was expecting her, and had seen the car pulling up, Lizzie would look a bit daft. 

She started to wonder if accepting the invite had been the wisest decision.  Yes, her working relationship with Hathaway had definitely improved now that Lewis was there (she’d love to know more about their partnership), and she’d felt at ease with Lewis almost immediately, but she wondered if this was perhaps pushing an unseen boundary.  Then there was Laura.  Lizzie had interacted with Laura on a few cases, but they weren’t what you would call friends.  Not yet, anyway, though Lizzie hoped they could be.

“Not getting any younger standing out here, Lizzie, me old girl,” she muttered under her breath.  She sniffed, squared her shoulders, marched up to the leadlight door, and rang the doorbell.  If Laura looked surprised to see her, she’d say she was looking for DI Hathaway.

She needn’t have worried.

Laura opened the door with a smile.  “Lizzie!  Come on in.”  She stepped back and held the door open wide.  “The boys'll be here soon.  I asked Robbie to pick up some wine on the way home, and, of course, James has insisted on accompanying him to–”

“–ensure the wine matches the meal.”  Lizzie finished Laura's sentence with her, making Laura laugh.

“Exactly.  Come on, I'll show you around while we’re waiting.”  Laura waved Lizzie through to the living area.  They’d barely taken two steps when a mobile started ringing in another room.  “Sorry, Lizzie, I’d better get that.  It's probably James checking on the menu.  I won't be long.”

Lizzie wandered back into the small entry hall.  To one side of the door hung a large mirror over an antique hallway table.  On the opposite wall, reflected in the mirror hung a collection of framed photos.  The open door had hidden them from Lizzie when she walked in.  The mixture of sizes, materials, and colour and black and white photos could have been an eyesore; however, Lizzie could see that great thought and care had gone into their arrangement.  The overall effect drew the eye into the centre.  Lizzie studied them with great curiosity, letting her copper’s eye find the details.

“Anyone you recognise?”

Lizzie started at Laura’s voice behind her.  She’d been so engrossed she hadn’t registered her approaching footsteps.  Lizzie pointed to one striking image.  “These two handsome gentlemen stand out.”

“Ah, yes,” came Laura’s pleased reply.  “It's not often you'll see those two in dress uniform; they both received citations that day.  You should have seen the fight I had to get them to stand still and smile for the camera,” she said with a bright laugh.  “They scrub up well, don't they?”

Even as Lizzie agreed, her eyes swept back to the central, quite unexpected, image.

A young, fresh-faced, jeans-clad DI Lewis smiled brightly at her from where he sat on a tartan picnic blanket.  A young girl, perhaps seven or eight, had her arms around his neck.  Lizzie could almost hear her giggles.  Beside Lewis, leaning against his shoulder and looking at him with incredible love, was a dark-haired woman, with a boy of around five or six sitting in her lap.  A loving, happy family on a beautiful summer’s day.

“This is amazing.  Was it your idea?” Lizzie asked.  She’d feel more comfortable asking any questions if she knew how Laura felt about the images.

“Robbie and I did it together.  We chose photos from both our lives that meant the most to both of us.”  She pointed to a candid portrait shot of an older man.  “For instance, Chief Inspector Morse, or Mouse, as I called him once.”

Lizzie quickly put her hand over her mouth to hide her smile.  With those eyebrows and that piercing gaze, he was more owl than mouse.  He had a kind face, though.

“In my defence,” Laura continued, her eyes bright with mirth, “the handwriting on the note I’d been given was atrocious.  We reframed some of the pictures but most were left as they’d always been.  It was a bit of challenge laying it all out, but we’re both pleased with the result.”

Emboldened, Lizzie pointed to the central image.  “If it’s okay to ask…”  She didn’t expect the look of fond sorrow in Laura’s eyes.

Laura pointed to each person, going anticlockwise.  “Robbie, his daughter Lyn, son Mark, and his late wife, Valerie.  Val.”

“Late–?”  Lizzie stuttered.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t know.”  Hathaway had never spoken of his former governor until he turned up on their case, and Lewis hadn’t been back at the station long enough for Lizzie to pick up any gossip.

Laura sighed.  “Doesn’t surprise me really.  Robbie doesn’t talk as much about the past as I think he should – for his own sake – and James would never say a word without Robbie’s express permission.”

Lizzie regretted asking.  “Please, you don’t have to tell me anything.  I just wondered…”

Laura chewed her bottom lip.  “Let’s get a drink – I’m sure I’ve got enough Pinot Noir left for two – and I’ll tell you what you’d find out by searching the newspapers.  Save you doing it yourself when you should be investigating a case.”

Lizzie blushed.  That was exactly what she’d planned to do.  If she knew the basics, she could avoid accidentally putting her foot in it in the future, and as newspapers were a public record, it wouldn’t have been a misuse of police resources or abuse of her position.  However, it was still snooping, which she wasn’t entirely comfortable with, so she was grateful for Laura’s offer.

Laura poured two glasses of wine, shaking the last drops out of the bottle.  She gave one to Lizzie and led the way to the living area.  Lizzie sat on the couch while Laura took the armchair next to the window.

Laura leant forward, resting her forearms on her lap.  Her glass rested in the palm of one hand, with the stem hanging between her fingers.  “Val was killed in a hit and run shortly before Christmas 2002.  No one was charged, and no suspects were located until 2009.  James found the man responsible, built the case, and saw him put away.”

“Oh, I'm...”  ‘Sorry’ seemed such an inadequate word.

Laura nodded in understanding.  “We all were.  Many of the officers Robbie worked with knew Val, and his children had been at school with a few of theirs.  Of course, Robbie and James didn’t know each other at that point, nor did Jean Innocent, and then Robbie spent two years on secondment in the British Virgin Islands.  It helped, but it still took time and the knowledge the bastard was behind bars before Robbie could really begin to move forward.  We owe James a great deal.”

Lizzie sat quietly and sipped her wine.  She couldn’t begin to imagine how she would cope if anything like that ever happened to her husband, Tony.  She knew he worried about her, though he’d accepted the risks associated with her work.  Every day, she hoped she’d never put him in the situation of hovering over her as she lay still in a hospital bed, or worse.

The sound of the front door opening interrupted them, and Lewis and Hathaway came into the house, laughing at something.  Laura was on her feet and met them halfway to the kitchen.  Lizzie stood and nodded hello.

“Oi!’ Lewis said with a grin.  “Look at that, James; drinking already.  They couldn’t wait for us to get here.”  Laura swatted his arm playfully and stretched up to kiss Hathaway’s cheek.  Lizzie recognised her chance to ask any more questions had passed.  She’d simply have to be very observant from here on in.

 


	6. Friday, 30 January 2015 – Day 1 of the investigation

Laura had never named the man who had torn Lewis’s life apart, and because of that, though she didn’t fully understand why, Lizzie had never looked for it.  She knew it now.  Simon Monkford.  Lizzie swayed between anger and sadness for Lewis and guilt because she was no longer sorry Monkford was dead.

She shoved the first file to one corner of her desk and dragged the second one in front of her.  She had to read the top document twice to take in what she was seeing.  It was the original letter from the Parole Board, received in September, just as Becky had advised her.  Lizzie recognised DI Lewis’s signature below the sign off.  He’d noted it the day after its receipt and presumably returned the file before DI Hathaway had had a chance to see it.  It was curious that Lewis hadn’t told Hathaway.  He couldn’t have; it was the sort of detail Hathaway would remember.

The letter stated that Monkford had been released into the care and supervision of his sister, Ms Christine Harper, in Wheatley.  So how had he ended up in Blackbird Leys Park with a stab wound to the chest on a bitterly cold, foggy January morning?

Lizzie was gathering more questions than answers.  She cupped her chin in her hands and stared at the offending document.  She was lost in thought when Hathaway appeared in the doorway and startled her.

“Anything?” he asked.  She could tell from his expression that he had news if she didn’t.  She told him what she had found.

*******

James traced his fingers over Robbie’s signature.  Lizzie, bless her, hadn’t asked if Robbie had explained not telling him.

Lizzie told him her idea that Monkford could have been planning another scam with his new-found printing skills and he agreed with her assessment. 

“Could be a motive,” Hathaway agreed.  “It’s certainly worth keeping in mind when we notify his sister.  Have you heard if Dr Trent’s identified him?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“As soon as she does we need to head out there.  We’ll also need the details of his parole officer to see if they can shed some light on Monkford’s movements and activities.  Meanwhile, until we have an official ID, can you follow up with SOCO, etcetera, and see if there’s anything useful in the way of CCTV between the sister’s Wheatley address and the park?”

“Do you think she could be involved?”

“No idea at this stage, though it pays to cover all angles.  If nothing else it could clear her of any involvement.”

James closed the door when Lizzie left the office and called Laura.  He quickly calculated the time difference between Oxford and Melbourne and crossed his fingers, hoping he’d catch her before she went to bed.

“He’s dead?”  Laura sounded almost as shocked as James had been.  “How?”

“Stabbed.  Robbie wanted me to tell you before it hit the media.”

“How did he take the news?”

“Robbie?  He was surprisingly philosophical, but then he wasn’t also dealing with the discovery that Monkford was no longer in prison.”  James was still a little miffed at being kept in the dark.

“Ah.”  Laura had the grace to sound slightly guilty.  “That.”

“You never mentioned it.”

“It wasn’t my news to mention; and Robbie had asked me not to say anything because he was concerned you’d start to worry and he didn’t want you distracted, not when everything had been falling into place for you.  I, er… I also knew Lizzie was still having some ongoing issues from her injuries.”

James was relieved Laura couldn’t see his face.  “Lizzie didn’t have–”

“I know about the headaches, James.”

James grunted in annoyance.  “I promised her no one else would know as long as Tony and her GP were happy for her to be at work.”

“I know you did.  She told me.”

“How did you find out?”

“I ran into her at the chemist when she was getting her prescription filled.  It didn’t take much to put two and two together.”

“Did you tell Robbie?”

“No, James Hathaway, I didn’t.  Surely you know me better than that by now.”  James cringed at the scolding; he did know better.  “Lizzie is your sergeant and you knew and that was good enough for me.”

“Sorry.”  He sighed.

“James, are you all right?”

“Yes.  I’m just not sure I’ll ever grow accustomed to having people around me who are looking out for my best interests.”

Laura made a soft sound James couldn’t interpret.  “Are you going to hand the case over?” she asked.

“I don’t see any reason why I should.  I didn’t have a personal connection to Monkford, and I can be impartial.”

“No, but you have a long history with Robbie who does have a connection.”

“What difference does that make?  Robbie’s not a murderer.”  James began to tense up.  If Laura made any suggestion to the contrary, he wasn’t sure what he’d say.

“Do you know that for certain?”

“Laura!”

“James, love, I’m not suggesting he is.  Step back for a minute.  Yes, we’re innocent until proven guilty, but anyone can be a suspect until his or her alibi is checked out.”

Annoyingly, she was right, and James had let his relationship with Robbie get in the way.  “As always, doctor, you are the voice of reason.”

“I’m sure everything will be fine, James.”  There was a quiet confidence in her words, which, while reassuring, would have carried more weight with James if Laura had been doing the post mortem.  He wondered how soon was too soon to push Dr Trent for answers.

The phone rang as soon as he’d placed the handset in the cradle.  The caller ID was Innocent’s PA.  James responded to the inevitable summons.

The PA waved him through with an appraising glance.  James knew it wasn’t for the suit or the way he wore it, which Robbie appreciated very much.  It wasn’t the first time she’d looked at him that way, nor did he believe it would be the last time.  He was, if not quite in trouble, then most certainly in for a reprimand of some description.  Dr Trent’s presence in Innocent’s office only confirmed his assumption.

“Ah, DI Hathaway.  Do sit down.”  Innocent directed him to the vacant chair beside Dr Trent.  On the desk in front of her, a manila folder lay open.  A single sheet of printed A4 paper sat on one side, and an evidence bag containing what appeared to be a business card sat on the other.  “Your body in the park, inspector.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Dr Trent informs me he is Simon Monkford.  The same Simon Monkford you had arrested and put away for death by dangerous driving.”

James had anticipated this development, though not quite as soon.  Dr Trent must have had a quick hit on the fingerprint database.  “Yes, ma’am.”

“So you did recognise him?”

“Yes, ma’am.”  James could see Innocent’s irritation rising.

“Why didn’t you say anything to Dr Trent at the time?”

“Dr Trent would still have had to verify his identity, and starting with fingerprints would have been the most logical choice.”  He turned to Trent.  “I presume that’s how you identified him.”  She nodded and James gave a sharp nod to Innocent in response.  “We haven’t lost any real time, not enough to have an impact on the investigation.”

“That’s not what I asked you, James.”

“I needed some time to absorb the information.  It came as a bit of shock.”

“James.”  It was a warning.  She slid the evidence bag with the business card across the desk to James.  “Do you have any idea where Monkford could have picked this up?  Dr Trent found it in his blazer pocket.”

**Robert Lewis  
Consultant DI**

James stared at the words.  Robbie had started using the cards during the investigation into Rose Anderson’s murder the previous May.  To the best of James’s knowledge, Lewis had more than half a box remaining as, unlike certain other DIs, he didn’t hand them out to every single person he encountered during a case.

“No, ma’am.  Although…”  James bit his lip.  He’d just had the horrible thought that perhaps Lewis had met with Christine Harper and given her a card, which somehow found its way into Monkford’s pocket.  No.  Robbie would have told him of any meeting.  “No, no idea,” he said resolutely.

Innocent watched him through narrowed eyes but let James’s hesitation pass.  “Did you know Monkford had been released?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Did Inspector Lewis?”  James faltered for a second.  It was all Innocent needed.  “Inspector Hathaway – James – how long do you think it will take me to find out if you’ve been to see Lewis since the discovery of the body?”

James huffed out a breath.  “I didn’t know he knew until I went to tell him Monkford had been murdered.  Dr Hobson also knew.”

With pursed lips, Innocent rocked back in her chair with her elbows resting on the chair’s arms.  The evidence bag hung between the fingers of one raised hand.  “Can we go back to my earlier question?”

 _Shit._ “Inspector Lewis mentioned Monkford’s sister had called him around the time of the parole hearing.  Perhaps she got hold of one.”

“Did Inspector Lewis mention meeting up with…what was her name?”

“Christine Harper.  No, only that she called him.”

Innocent held James’s gaze.  Beside him, Dr Trent wriggled in her chair, causing the wood to creak.

“James, I have some concerns about your ability to remain impartial in this case.”

“I understand, ma’am, but I can assure you the case will have my full, unbiased attention.”

“James, under normal circumstances, I’d be happy to leave things as is; however, with the discovery of the business card, until it’s determined beyond all reasonable doubt that Inspector Lewis has no involvement in this case, I’d like you and Lizzie to work with DI Grainger.”

“Ma’am, that won’t–”

“I’m not asking you, James.  For the sake of both your careers and reputations, you will do this.”

James had learnt there were times when it was wise to back down.  This was one of those times.  “Yes, ma’am.”

Innocent scrutinised him carefully.  “Well, Inspector, what’s your course of action?”

After seeing Monkford’s lifeless body, James had been focussing his mental energy on Robbie; nevertheless, a part of his mind had been working on different possibilities and investigation directions.  This was solid ground.

“Lizzie’s currently following up on CCTV and with forensics.  With Monkford’s identity confirmed, Lizzie and I will notify his sister and find out what she has to say.  Unless you’d rather DI Grainger…?”  Innocent shook her head.  “We need to know whether Monkford was working, if he’d made any contacts she’s aware of, and anything else he’s been doing since his release.  We don’t know where he was killed, and I don’t believe a murder weapon was found at the scene.”  He looked to Dr Trent for confirmation.

“SOCO turned up some cigarette butts and two used condoms, but nothing that could have left that hole in his chest,” she supplied.

Innocent’s gaze finally left James.  “Any ideas on the weapon used, Dr Trent?” she asked.

She shook her head.  “It’s not a knife, or if it is, it’s not like any I’ve encountered.  The post mortem will be completed this afternoon and then we’re going to try making a latex mould of the wound to see if we can get a better idea of the shape.”

“Dr Trent.”  James twisted his chair, turning his upper body towards her.  “Do you have any additional details on time and cause of death?”

“Not at this stage; we’re short-staffed today, so I’ve only been able to complete my external examination so far.  I’ll get my report to you as soon as I’m able.”

Innocent folded her hands together on the desk.  “In that case, I’d better let you both get back on with it.”

Trent was out the door before James had stood up.

“What do you think, James?”  Innocent rocked back in her chair.  “Is she simply eager to get back to the morgue, or do I frighten her so much that it’s the lesser of two evils?”

James gave a wry half-smile.  “It’s me she wants to get away from, ma’am.  Lizzie says I intimidate her.”

“Chin up, James.  Dr Hobson will be back soon and then you can be the one being intimidated.”

James managed a proper smile.  “I’m looking forward to it, ma’am.”  He was reaching for the door handle when Innocent spoke again.

“James.”  He turned towards her.  “I do trust you, and Inspector Lewis; I want to make that very clear to you.  Please understand I have to be seen to be doing everything in my power to protect the integrity of this constabulary and the reputation of all its officers.”

James did understand.  He didn’t have to like it.  He simply nodded once, before walking out the door.

*******

James stopped the car in front of the small cottage at the northern end of Wheatley.  This was the address given by the Parole Board for Simon Monkford.

“You look puzzled, sir.”

“The last time I spoke to Christine Harper, she was living in High Wycombe, in a much larger house than this.”

“People move.”

“They do, sergeant.  The why can be the interesting part.”

As Lizzie was going to be the one to break the news, James let her lead the way to the door.  Neither of them liked this part of the job.  James, as senior officer, was well within his rights to sit back and always leave it to Lizzie; he knew of DIs who did this as a matter of course, deeming it ‘character building’.  James’s sense of decency wouldn’t allow him to do that.  He and Lizzie took it turn around, sharing the burden.

Lizzie knocked sharply on the door, which opened a few moments later.  James recognised Christine Harper; she had aged poorly, with deep lines around her mouth and eyes, and a heavily scored brow.  There was a glimmer of recognition when she looked at James.

“Mrs Harper?”  Lizzie asked, receiving a faint nod in reply.  “DS Maddox and DI Hathaway, Oxfordshire Police.  May we come in?”

Christine Harper’s eyes narrowed as she looked more closely at James.  “Hathaway?  I thought you looked familiar.”  She took a step back to clear the doorway.  “What’s my disappointment of a brother done this time?”

“May we sit down, Mrs Harper?”

The woman sighed and pointed to the small front room.  The interior of the cottage felt as weary as Christine Harper looked.  James couldn’t picture Monkford sitting in this room.  Something wasn’t quite right.

Puffs of dust shot out of the cushions when Mrs Harper dropped into an armchair.  James chose to remain standing, while Lizzie perched gingerly on the edge of the couch.

“Mrs Harper,” Lizzie said gently.  “Simon, your brother, has been found dead.”

“Dead?  Simon?  Are you absolutely sure it’s him?”  Her eyes darted between Lizzie and James.

“We are, Mrs Harper.”  James took a step forward.  “I recognised him and our pathologist has confirmed the identification.”

“How?  Was he in an accident.”

“No,” Lizzie said.  “He was murdered, Mrs Harper.”

“Murdered?”  Christine Harper looked around the room in a daze.

“We’re very sorry for your loss.  Can I make you a cup of tea?” Lizzie asked. 

Christine shook her head.  “Thank you, but it’s not necessary.”  She kept her head down.

No tears, no emotion beyond surprise.  Lizzie glanced at James.  She was as bemused as he was.  She gave a small shrug and returned her attention to Christine.  “Mrs Harper, the Parole Board has informed us Simon was living here.  Would you allow me to have a look at his room?”

She shook her head again.  “Simon never stayed here.  I took him straight to the flat from Leyhill.”

“What flat?”  Lizzie’s tablet was on her lap and she took down the Marston address Christine gave her.  “Mrs Harper, you do realise Simon not living here was a breach of his parole conditions?  A judge could have sent him back to prison for the balance of his sentence, and have you charged.  You could still be charged.”

James watched their exchange silently, looking for any clues in Christine Harper’s body language that could indicate her involvement in his death.

Christine Harper glared at Lizzie.  “I may sound like a cold-hearted bitch, but I didn’t care.  I don’t care.  He was not staying under this roof.”

“Then why did you tell the Parole Board he could?”

“When my brother was put away, my mother made me promise I’d do whatever I could to get him out of prison as soon as possible.  After her death, my aunt held me to that promise.”  Her disgust was evident.  “If it was up to me, he’d still be inside.”

“Where was Simon working?”

“Simon?  Work?  Don’t make me laugh,” Christine said scornfully.

“If he wasn’t working, how could he afford to live in Marston?”

“Our mother left us both money when she passed away three years ago.  I was the executor of her will and signed the paperwork so Simon could take control of his share.  I’m still waiting for him to pay me back for getting the flat for him.  I suppose that makes me his last con victim.”

“Do you know if Simon–”

“I can’t answer your questions about Simon,” Christine snapped.  “I picked him up from Leyhill, drove him to the flat, and told him I didn’t want anything more to do with him.  I haven’t seen him since.”

She was lying.  James knew it.  He also knew they wouldn’t get anything else useful out of her today. 

Lizzie had realised it too.  “Thank you for your time, Mrs Harper.”  She held out one of her business cards.  When Christine didn’t move, Lizzie put it on the coffee table as she stood up.  “If you think of anything else you feel may be relevant, you can reach me here.”

James stepped forward.  “We may or may not need to speak to you again, Mrs Harper; however, you can expect to be contacted by the Parole Board for failing to comply with the conditions of your brother’s release.”

“Will it really matter now that he’s dead?”

“That all depends on the Parole Board and what we find out about Simon’s activities.”  James started to follow Lizzie out, stopped, and turned back.  “Mrs Harper, have you spoken to or met with DI Robert Lewis recently?”

“Never met him.  I did call him once when I knew Simon’s release was imminent.  He made it clear he wanted nothing to do with either of us.  Can’t say I blame him.”

“Why did you call him?”

“My aunt.  Again.  She thought DI Lewis… I’m not sure what she thought.  She’s big on forgiveness, though why she’d expect DI Lewis to forgive Simon is beyond me.”

“Did you ever receive a business card from DI Lewis?”

“I’ve just told you, I’ve never met the man.”

“Yes.  My apologies.  Thank you.”

He saw himself out, leaving Christine Harper in the armchair, staring out the window.

James headed briskly for the car where Lizzie stood waiting.  “Lizzie, make a note that we need to find out if Monkford purchased or leased a car.  When I encountered him, he didn’t strike me as a public transport user.  If he had money at his disposal, I think he would have obtained a car somehow.”

“He could have used taxis.”

“He could have, but let’s see if we can’t find a car first.”

“Yes, sir.  Sir?”  James, who was walking around to the drivers’ side stopped and turned to face her.  Lizzie was scowling at him.  “Weren’t you a bit hard on her?  She’s just lost her brother.”

“She didn’t look too upset to me.”

“Well, no, but…”

James opened the car door.  He softened his voice.  “Parole conditions are set to protect the parolee as much as the public, and the simple fact is, Simon Monkford might still be alive if he’d been staying where he was supposed to be.  I didn’t like the man, but I wouldn’t have wished him dead.”

Lizzie was appeased.  “Yes, sir.”  She entered the car.

James drove away, heading back to Oxford. 

Lizzie opened her tablet.  “What did you ask her about, sir?”

“Pardon?”

“You went back to talk to her.  I was going to make a note of it for the file.  If it’s relevant.”  She looked uncertain.

Only then did James remember he hadn’t told Lizzie about the business card found on Monkford.  He found he was still reluctant to say anything.  “It wasn’t.”  There was a heavy pause where he thought Lizzie was going to insist on knowing.  Then she shrugged.

“Right-o.  Sir?”

“Yes.”

“Did you get the feeling she was lying about not having seen her brother since his release?”

Lizzie’s instincts were good.  If James didn’t keep an eye out, he’d find himself minus a sergeant and working beside a new DI.  “I did, and that she was clamping down.  Once we have an idea of Monkford’s movements, we can look for any overlap – phone calls, texts.  If anything raises a flag, then we can look into Mrs Harper’s movements.”

Lizzie tapped at the tablet’s screen.  “Shall I contact SOCO and see if they can get out to the Marston flat tonight?”

James would have liked nothing more.  He considered his position.  He looked away so Lizzie couldn’t see his frustration.  “Contact DI Grainger and pass the information on to him.”

“DI Grainger?”

“Innocent’s orders, sergeant.  She’d like me at arm’s length for a bit.”

“Is that because of DI Lewis?”  Lizzie sounded as disgruntled with the decision as James felt.  “That’s bollocks.”  There was a long pause.  “Sir.”

James gave her a quick smile.  “Inspector Lewis will be pleased to know you’re on his side…and mine.”

*******

James made it home shortly after 6pm.  Soft yellow light glowed from behind the front windows, beckoning James in.

He could hear the shower running as he opened the door, and the aroma of food cooking filled the flat.

James hung up his coat, and toed off his shoes.  He removed his belt, loosened his tie, and undid the first two buttons on his shirt.  Then he rested his forehead against the wall and took several deep breaths.  God, he was tired.

Lizzie had been a bear with a sore head about Grainger taking over their search, as she saw it, of Monkford’s flat.  It hadn’t helped that James had had to suggest Grainger arrange for a uniformed officer to stand guard on the flat until the search team arrived in the morning.  Lizzie had wisely shown a neutral face when Innocent had come into their office looking for an update.  God help Grainger if Lizzie thought he or SOCO weren’t thorough enough tomorrow.

The shower stopped.  James pushed off the wall and headed to the bedroom, stopping at the bathroom door.  He knocked lightly.

“I’m home.”

“I’ll be out in a tick, love.  Dinner won’t be ready ‘til around half-six.”

James slumped against the wall to the side of the door and waited for it to open.  As Robbie emerged, James pulled him into an embrace.

“I’m glad to see you too, pet,” Robbie murmured fondly.  “Rough day?”

James sighed happily, as Robbie pushed his fingers into James’s hair and then began gently kneading the back of James’s neck.

Leaving a soft kiss on his cheek, James let Robbie push away.

Robbie ruffled James’s hair playfully.  “Get yourself in the shower.  There’ll be a glass of wine waiting for you when you get out.”

James held onto the towel around Robbie’s waist.  “Don’t suppose you feel like a second shower?”  He bent forward and nuzzled Robbie’s neck.

“Get in there, you soft sod.”  Robbie nudged James towards the open door.  “Dinner first, then we’ll see about second showers and whatever.”

“I’m holding you to that.”  James reluctantly let go and essentially rolled himself around the door frame into the bathroom.  He grabbed the frame with one hand and poked his head out.  “What is for dinner?”

“Chicken pie, mashed spuds, peas.”

“Sainsbury or Waitrose?”

“What?”

“The pie: is it Sainsbury or Waitrose?”

“Neither.  The bakery near the station sells them frozen to take home.  I know you like their steak and onion pie, so I thought I’d try the chicken.”

“What others did they have?”

“James.”  A note of good-humoured frustration had crept into Robbie’s voice.  “Get in the bloody shower now, or else the only thing I’ll be serving up is burnt offerings.”

“All right.  I’m going.  I was only asking for future reference.”  James heard Robbie chuckle as he shut the door.  He was already feeling a lot better.

Robbie had left the bathroom steamy and warm, and the hot water pouring over James’s body was soothing.  James was half-tempted to stand there until Robbie came to drag him out (so he could drag him in).  No.  That wouldn’t do.  He wanted Robbie in a good mood.

Ten minutes later, James, dressed in well-worn tracky bottoms and one of Robbie’s t-shirts, wandered into the kitchen.  The promised glass of wine, a chilled white, sat at the end of the worktop.  The pie and a covered serving dish (the peas, presumably) sat on a wire rack on the worktop, with wisps of steam drifting upwards.  The aroma promised a hearty meal.  The dining table had been set, with trivets sat in the centre waiting for the hot dishes.  Robbie’s back was to James and he was humming softly to himself in front of the stove.  James smiled fondly at the scene.

Like many others, Laura included, James had assumed Robbie’s domestic skills were limited, as he seemed to live on takeaway, pub meals, and ‘pierce and ping’ dinners, with the occasional fry up for Sunday breakfast.  When he’d moved in with Dr Hobson, he’d made an effort to do his share of cooking, often with mixed results.  James hadn’t expected anything different after Robbie first moved into the spare room.  Then, three weeks ago, Robbie started his stint at the training centre.  The role meant he was home by 5.30 every evening, and James had discovered an unknown side to his former governor.

Robbie Lewis, DI, widower, and self-confessed dinosaur, was very much at home in the kitchen.  Oh, he would never appear on MasterChef, nor the Great British Bake-Off – no one was under that illusion – but he wasn’t a two-dish wonder, either.  While James had half-a-dozen dishes he could confidently prepare, Robbie had over twice that at his disposal, possibly more.  In fact, James wouldn’t have been at all surprised if Robbie had said he’d baked the pie himself.  Why he’d had so many disasters while he was with Laura was beyond James's understanding, and so, James had asked him.

“Does saying I had nerves sound daft?”  James had shaken his head.  “Felt like I had to get everything exactly right for Laura, like I had to prove meself, so naturally most of the time it went wrong.  S’different with you, pet.”

Watching Robbie in the kitchen of an evening had become one of James’s guilty pleasures when he was home in time to see it.

“Sit down, love,” Robbie said, looking over his shoulder at James.  “Relax.  Just finishing off the potatoes.”

James eased himself into his chair, leaned into the backrest, and closed his eyes.  He attempted to push the day’s revelations to the back of his mind, if only for a couple of hours.  The kiss on his cheek startled him.

“Eat up, then an early night for you, I think,” Robbie murmured, putting serving spoons in the peas and mashed potato and transferring the dishes of food to the table, before taking his seat.

“I’m not tired.”  James sat up and pulled his chair closer to the table as Robbie cut the pie into quarters.  “I’m sure I’ll be fine after I’ve eaten a bit.”  James held out his plate with a smile.

Robbie lifted a portion of the chicken pie and slipped it onto James’s plate.  “Did you skip lunch again?”  It was a warning as much as a gentle scold.  Robbie pushed the potatoes towards James.

“No.  Lizzie made me stop for sandwiches and coffee on the way back from interviewing... around one o’clock.”  James pressed his lips together.  He was so used to Robbie knowing exactly what was going on that he’d momentarily forgotten Robbie was currently on the other side of the investigation.  Even without the evidence of the business card, as _‘spouse of the current murder victim’s victim’_ , Robbie would be at the top of any lead detective’s list of suspects.

Robbie nodded in quiet understanding.  “You can tell me all about it once you’ve got someone in custody.  Though, I have to say I’m surprised Innocent’s letting you run with the case.”

James didn’t answer immediately, spooning mash and peas onto his plate.  “She’s warned me she’s keeping an eye on me,” was all he offered.

Robbie merely nodded.

Dinner was a quiet affair as they ate in an easy silence.  Once he started eating, James discovered he was hungrier than he’d realised.  Between them, he and Robbie cleared each dish, though James couldn’t have said if Robbie was eating from hunger or to keep his mouth occupied so he wouldn’t ask questions.  The pie was exceptional, and James made a mental note to check the bakery to see what other varieties they had on offer.  It could be useful to keep a couple in the freezer for quick meals.

James stood to clear the table.

Robbie took the pie dish from James’s hand.  “I’ll get this lot, pet.”

“You cooked.  I clean.  That’s how it goes.  It’s not as though you were home sat on your arse all day.”

“No, but…”

“I’ll wash if you dry.”

“Deal.”

Any other night they would continue their dinner conversation over the dishes.  Tonight there was no conversation to continue.  Unasked questions hung in the air between them, and unsought answers hovered out of reach.

James took two beers from the fridge while Robbie put the last of the dishes away, and wandered through to the couch.  He lowered himself into the corner and balanced a bottle on each knee.  He chewed on his bottom lip and argued with himself.  One question could clear up the puzzle of how Monkford might have gotten his hands on one of Robbie’s business cards.  It would also be enough for Innocent to remove him from the case immediately, and probably have him on a disciplinary charge.  Undisclosed evidence stayed that way until solid policing (or damn fluke luck, as happened sometimes) yielded answers.

He smiled and held out one beer when Robbie dropped into the couch beside him.  They stared at the telly and drank.  James retrieved the remote control from the coffee table and began flicking through the channels, finally settling on a documentary on penguins narrated by David Tennant.

“Seen this,” Robbie murmured.

“Always better the second time around,” James replied.  “Don’t have to concentrate on it as much.”

Robbie snorted.  “You?  Not concentrate on a documentary?  Admit it.  You sit there and absorb the bloody things no matter how many times you’ve seen them.”

“Only the decent ones.”

“The ones you can’t pick apart, you mean.”

James acknowledged the point and relaxed into the couch.  This was how it should be.  He let his eyes half-close as he listened to softened Scots accent interspersed with penguin cries.

Robbie cleared his throat loudly at the end of the programme.  James rolled forward and put his empty beer bottle on the coffee table beside Robbie’s and readied himself for what would be a carefully thought out statement.  Robbie would have been turning today’s events over in his mind, and would now have weighed that against James’s demeanour this evening.

“James, love, I know you can’t tell me anything about the case, and I won’t ask you to, but I can tell when something’s bothering you.  Maybe you should relinquish the case if you feel you’re too close.  It’s hard to stay impartial when you’re emotionally invested.”

 _Fuck._ “It’s not that,” James said hastily.  “I said Innocent was keeping an eye on me.  The thing is she’s brought DI Grainger in.  I’ve relinquished the search of Monkford’s residence to his charge.”  Lizzie had made all the necessary calls before they had arrived back at the station.

“Innocent knows what she’s doing.  Grainger’s a good officer.”

“I know.  I don’t like feeling sidelined.”

“None of us do, pet.  And you’re not exactly sidelined, are you?  You know what’s going on.”

“Sorry.  I’m grumbling about how the investigation’s being handled, and you’re completely on the outside.”

“Will you be at Monkford’s tomorrow for the search?”

“No.  I thought it would be wisest to send Lizzie with Grainger.  It’ll keep Innocent happy.  There’s more than enough to keep me going at the station.”

“What about Monkford’s car?”  The question caught James off-guard.  _God, please don’t let Robbie know details they haven’t uncovered yet._   “Someone like Monkford isn’t going to rely on the bus.  The man’s a narcissist, all about keeping up appearances.  He’ll have got hold of a car somehow, whether it’s owned, hired, or borrowed.”

James relaxed.  “I thought the same thing.  Lizzie’s was looking into it when I left.  What?”

Robbie was frowning.  “Have you notified his sister?”  James nodded.  “Why didn’t you start the search then?  The letter said he’d be at his sister’s after release.  How can you be sure she’s not hiding something?”

“It’s all under control, Robbie.”  James clasped Robbie’s hand.  “Can we please talk about something else now?”

Robbie held his gaze for several seconds – eyes searching, James knew, for any sign James was stretching the truth thin – before he leaned in for a long, slow kiss, gradually pushing James back against the arm of the couch.

“Anything else I can do to take your mind off the case, for tonight anyway?” he murmured into James’s mouth.

James twisted until he could get both legs up on the couch, and then pulled and tugged at Robbie’s hips until he was lying between James’s legs. 

“I’m sure you can think of something.”  James clasped Robbie’s arse and thrust his hips upwards on the last word.

Robbie moaned softly and began to push against James.  They wouldn’t need any further words that night.

 


	7. Saturday, 31 January 2015 – Day 2 of the investigation

Lizzie parked her car in a vacant space about fifty metres from the block of flats Simon Monkford had last called home.  The sun had barely risen, and everything still wore a thick mantle of frost.  It would be another hour before the search of his flat got underway.  Lizzie checked the notes on her tablet as her windscreen started to fog up.  She was here to be DI Hathaway’s eyes and ears while SOCO picked the flat apart.  She’d provide him with her own observations, giving him another perspective to the formal report that would follow.  Some would have said she’d have been wiser to head into the station and travel out with the search team, but Lizzie had another reason for exposing herself to the bitter cold.

After DI Hathaway had left, she’d discovered Monkford _had_ bought himself a small car; a 2005 white Vauxhall Corsa.She’d left a report for DI Grainger, and slipped a copy onto Hathaway’s desk, before submitting a request for an ANPR search.  One problem, as Lizzie saw it, was that there were no cameras in the vicinity of Monkford’s building – she’d checked.  To satisfy herself more than anyone else, she’d decided she’d take some time to look around the small block of flats and the surrounding streets.

Lizzie tucked the tablet into the large pocket on the inside of her jacket, fastened the zipper, and braced herself as she opened the door and climbed out.  The street was silent.  Overnight snow dusted the cars, and footpaths were pristine white.  It was almost pretty, except the snow would melt and refreeze, turning the ground treacherous underfoot, and the cold and damp would gradually seep into Lizzie’s boots.

She locked the door and headed away from the flats towards the t-junction.  From her pocket, Lizzie drew out a photocopied map.  On it, she’d marked out a route that would take her through the surrounding streets; places Monkford might park his car if there wasn’t space near his flat.  It would take her in a rough circle and bring her back to the flats.

*******

Lizzie was back in her car, with the engine and heater running, before the SOCO team and Grainger arrived.  Even though she hadn’t found Monkford’s car, she didn’t consider it a wasted venture.  She’d noted several homes with security cameras pointed towards the street, which might give them some leads if everything else failed to pan out.  She’d also found a £10 note that was now tucked safely in her jeans pocket.

A police van turned into the street.  Lizzie pulled the sleeve of her coat over her hand and wiped a clear patch on the side window.  The other vehicle pulled up in front of Monkford’s building and Lizzie held her breath as the driver skilfully shoehorned it into a space barely long enough.  Lizzie waited until the small group of officers had gathered on the footpath with their equipment before she left the warm cocoon of her car to join them.

The building itself was set back from the street behind a hedge and garden beds.  It took up the entire width of the property, leaving no space for parking.  The tenants had to take potluck on the street.  The bins stood in a line along the fence between the building and the hedge.  Lizzie used the tablet’s camera to document the scene.  She noted the location of the nearest streetlights.  She suspected the garden and main doors would be in the shadow cast by those lights, effectively concealing those coming and going, though she’d have to come back at night if she wanted to be certain.

Lizzie was aware Grainger had directed a small team of uniformed officers to interview the other residents of the building by phone as soon as she had passed on the address information.  She’d logged into her email and read the brief report while she’d been waiting for the search team to arrive.  Everyone claimed to be home on Thursday evening, except one woman who’d left for work at 9pm, but no one had seen or heard anything amiss.

Lizzie turned her attention to Grainger, who held a nondescript key tag containing three keys, which he passed to the lead SOCO.  They would be the keys sourced and obtained using the information Christine Harper had given Lizzie and Hathaway.  Grainger followed the team into the building.  Lizzie held back, taking in the building’s façade.

At one time, Lizzie imagined, judging by the quality of the materials and fixtures, the house had been quite grand.  Now it was old and tired, merely a collection of six flats across three floors.

On the left-hand side of the doorframe was an intercom system, with the tenant’s surnames clearly visible.  Detailed leadlight decorated the solid double doors while two new deadbolt locks secured them.  A lighter patch marked the centre of one door where a knocker, probably polished brass, had once hung.  Lizzie pushed and pulled the doors, which moved silently on their hinges.  Beyond the doors, a wide staircase with a sweeping banister, worn smooth with the gliding of many hands, wound its way to the upper floors. 

The ground floor hall was devoid of furnishings and ran through the building to a rear door.  Lizzie checked the stairs.  She was looking for a cupboard, an entrance to a basement, or any door that didn’t belong to either ground floor flat.  She found nothing.  There was nowhere anyone could hide and wait.  To get in you either used a key, broke in (for which there was no immediate evidence), or were let in by a resident.

Monkford’s flat was on the first floor and Lizzie could hear the team preparing to enter.  She made her way up, listening for any telltale creaks and groans that could have alerted other residents to movement on the stairs.  There were none, yet another mark of the quality of the construction of the building.  As all the building’s occupants used the stairs and landings, they were untouched by SOCO.  Any evidence found there would most likely be compromised and inadmissible.  It didn’t stop Lizzie from photo documenting them.

The entrance to Monkford’s flat was towards the front of the building, only a few metres from the top of the stairs.  There were no signs of damage to Monkford’s door or the doorframe.  The door to the other flat on the floor was at the far end of the landing, which ended with a pair of French doors opening onto a rear balcony.  Lizzie walked the length of the wooden floor in the shared hallway.  Like the stairs, the timbers were silent, though heavily scuffed; none of the damage appeared recent.  Lizzie continued to take photographs, using the light from her camera to illuminate the darker areas.

“You could get in and out without making a sound,” she murmured to herself.  Looking back at the constable posted by the open door, she could see DI Grainger standing against the wall just beyond the entrance.  He was wearing a scene suit, and in his hand was a plastic bag containing another scene suit and shoe covers.  Voices giving and acknowledging directions filtered into the hallway.

“Could you close the door for a minute, please?” Lizzie asked the constable, who pulled the door shut with a gloved hand.  The voices were gone.  “Thank you.”

She frowned to herself.  In the flats she was most familiar with, you could hear any sound above a moderately raised voice through the less than adequate walls and doors.  Whoever killed Monkford had either been to the flat before, and had been confident of being unseen and unheard, or else they’d been very bloody lucky.

The door opened and Grainger stepped into the gap, holding out the bag.  “They’re just getting underway.”  Lizzie took the bag and suited up in the hallway before stepping inside.

She found herself in large room.  A galley kitchen ran half the length of the far wall.  The worktops were bare and a silver kettle sat on the hob.  A small round table and two chairs sat nearby in front of the window overlooking the street to her right.  In the centre of the open space sat at three-seater couch and a coffee table facing a wall-mounted television over the small fireplace.  Beyond the living area were two doors.  Lizzie couldn’t see any pictures or books, nor any personal items; it wasn’t a home.

She could see how SOCO had divided the tidy space between them.  To an outsider, it may have seemed pointless, but Lizzie had seen evidence come to light in the least likely places, so she knew they couldn’t afford to leave any part of this flat unchecked.  A SOCO entered the first room.  Lizzie could see the end of a bed and another door in the wall opposite it, presumably leading to the bathroom. 

Lizzie watched Isla Brennan, an experienced SOC officer, as she received final instructions from the lead SOCO, Hannah Mackenzie.  Brennan approached the second door off the main room, opened it and switched on the lights.  She didn’t enter immediately and a change in her posture aroused Lizzie’s curiosity.  Lizzie’s urge to peek over Brennan’s shoulder surged when Brennan called Mackenzie over.  They conferred silently.  Grainger was at Lizzie’s shoulder and they both watched intently, with Lizzie straining to hear the discussion between the two forensic officers.

With a sharp nod, Brennan put a strip of crime scene tape across the door and ducked under it with her kit in hand.  Mackenzie walked over to where Lizzie and Grainger stood expectantly.

“You’ll want to see this,” Mackenzie said soberly.

Lizzie and Grainger followed her back across the flat, single-file, stepping carefully on the raised Perspex steps.

Looking over Mackenzie’s shoulder, Lizzie scanned the room, which had been set up as a study.  She could see an Ikea desk – Lizzie had the same one at home – a gas-lift chair, and a small bookcase, which was empty.  A laptop sat closed on the desk, a single steady light glowing on the front.  Brennan stood to the right, just inside the door.

A long, thin blood streak marked one off-white wall, and a pool of blood marred the faded floorboards.  One side of the pool had a regular, concave edge.  The other side was splattered and rough.

“I think it’s fairly safe to assume Monkford was killed here,” Grainger murmured.

There seemed little doubt, though they would have to wait for the DNA results before formalising that conclusion.  Lizzie narrowed her eyes, focussing on one spot.  She pointed at an item stuck in the congealed liquid on the floor.  “What’s that?”

Brennan took a careful step forward and looked closely at where Lizzie was pointing.  “A bank note.”  Curiosity coloured Brennan’s voice as she scanned the floor.  “It looks like there are more under the desk.  And we have shoeprints.”  Brennan shone her torch just beyond the splattered blood, picking out two very clear imprints.  “Distinctive pattern too: Converse.  I don’t suppose Monkford was wearing Converse?”

“No, he was in socks only,” Lizzie said quietly.

“Why only two?” Grainger queried.  “Why aren’t there more prints in the room or out here?”

“Realised what they’d done and taken the shoes off?” Lizzie suggested.

“That’d be the best way to guarantee no transfer,” said Brennan.  “As long as they put them in a bag of some kind, or wrapped them so they didn’t drip.”

Lizzie suppressed a small shudder.  If that was the case, whoever did this had kept a cool head.  It suggested premeditation more than a crime of passion, or possibly psychopathic behaviour.  She felt a touch at her elbow.  Mackenzie had come behind her and Grainger.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to wait over there.”  Mackenzie inclined her head towards the main door.

Lizzie turned to discover the two chairs by the table were now in the far corner of the main room, presumably cleared by SOCO.  Sitting there would block their view of the smaller rooms, but Lizzie didn’t see she had much choice.  Still... nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Sir, I think perhaps I–”

Grainger cut her off.  “We stay out of the way, sergeant, unless called upon.”

She bit back her protest.  “Yes, sir.”  She followed him back to the chairs to wait.

Lizzie didn’t like waiting around.  While Grainger made himself as comfortable as he could, Lizzie stood, her eyes darting from one area of the flat to the other, just in case there were further developments.  She was itching to stand by the study door and watch as whatever secrets and clues it held came to light.  Lizzie glanced at Grainger from time to time.  He, too, was keeping a careful eye on the goings on.

Lizzie grew restless.  Finally, deciding doing anything was better than twiddling her thumbs, she made a start on her report.  Using the tablet, and thankful for the illumination provided by the lights set up for the forensics team, she took multiple images of the flat’s main room.

“What are you doing?”  She turned to find Grainger looking at her enquiringly, his eyebrows overlapping over the bridge of his nose, resembling a thin, grey caterpillar.  “SOCO have thoroughly documented the scene.”

“They’re for my report, sir.  An image speaks a thousand words.”

“There’s no need to do that.  You and DI Hathaway will have full access to SOCO’s report.”

In her head, Lizzie could see Hathaway rolling his eyes at the obvious statement.  “I’m aware of that, sir.  This is for my benefit.”

“Your benefit?”

“Yes, sir.  This is about improving my skills.  The more reports I write, the better I’ll get.”  Lizzie wasn’t about to point out that, whenever possible, DI Hathaway liked the proof of his own eyes in addition to the final reports, and that her report would be the closest he’d get.

“I hear you’re already quite proficient in that area,” Grainger commented.  The compliment was a surprise.  “I didn’t realise DI Hathaway set such exacting standards.”

“No higher than DI Lewis’s, sir.”

Grainger merely huffed.  Lizzie grudgingly sat down, her body turned away from the DI.  She hunched over the tablet and began to type, glancing up every now and again to keep an eye on the progress of the search.

Lizzie noted with interest each evidence bag added to the plastic tubs that had been set out on the table by the window, particularly those from the study.  After clearing their own assigned areas, two officers had joined Brennan and Mackenzie in the study, giving Lizzie hope they would leave before noon.  She glanced over her shoulder at Grainger, who appeared to be in a trance with his eyes fixed on the kitchen.  Maybe he was just desperate for a cup of tea.  Lizzie was hanging out for a coffee, so she wouldn’t have been surprised.  It didn’t help that that it was chilly in the flat.

When Hannah Mackenzie finally called them over, Lizzie rose achingly to her feet.  She’d be glad to get back into her car and turn the heating on full.  She heard Grainger’s heavy groan behind her and the scrape of the chair on the floor.

“The footprints are definitely Converse, and probably a fairly new pair.  The print showed no indication of wear.  We have a full print, so we can confidently say we’re looking for a size 11 shoe.  There were dark blue fibres along the curved edge of the blood pool.  The fibres will have to be examined; however, when you factor in the regular curve of the pool, I think we’ll be looking at carpet fibres of some description, a rug.”

“Any idea what size of rug would have been there?” Lizzie asked.

“Brennan did some calculations and came up with a diameter of approximately 150 centimetres.”

“Was there enough floor space for a rug that size?” queried Grainger.

“Absolutely.  There’s a gap between the bottom of the door and the floor, so a low pile rug could have sat in front of the door without causing any access problems.”  Mackenzie paused, and when neither Lizzie nor Grainger said anything else, she removed four evidence bags from the nearest plastic tub and laid one on the table.

“Several items that will be of interest.  Two £50 notes found stuck together in the blood.”  She put a second bag beside the first.  “Three £50 notes from under the desk.  A total of £250.  We’ll try to lift prints from the notes, though the odds are they’ll belong to Monkford.  We also found his wallet under the desk.  At this stage, it’s impossible to say if anything is missing from it.”

The third bag clunked against the table top.  “Bloodied chisel.  Found behind the door.  There were fresh gouges in the plaster in the corner of the room suggesting the chisel struck one wall, ricocheted off at an angle, and hit the adjoining wall with some force.”  Mackenzie stretched the plastic taut across the handle.  “There are some markings here, which will hopefully give us something useful once we get it back to Forensics.”

Lizzie peered at the chisel.  It was one of the cheaper varieties, probably sold in a set for a few pounds.  Anyone could have picked it up anywhere.  “Did you find any other tools in the flat?”

Mackenzie scanned the hand-written listings.  “No.”

“So our assailant brought it with them?”

“A logical conclusion.”  Mackenzie looked at the last bag in her hand and the small white object within.  “Then there was this.  It was with the bank notes under the desk.”

Lizzie found herself looking at one of DI Lewis’s business cards.

*******

Lizzie locked her car and hurried into the station.  She was thankful she’d made the decision to take her own car to Monkford’s building this morning as it had given her the opportunity to escape from DI Grainger.  As they’d followed the SOCO team out of the flat and back to the street, Grainger had been thinking out loud.  Her patience had started to wear thin as Grainger had outlined the various avenues they’d have to go through in order to question a serving police officer.

“Be much easier if Lewis hadn’t come back to work,” he’d complained.  “Who gets bored of retirement?  Going to create all sorts of problems that is.”

Lizzie wasn’t even certain the presence of a single business card was sufficient grounds to do so.  If that were the case, based on the listed contents of Monkford’s wallet, which was also now in evidence, they had another eight suspects to question.  She couldn’t believe Grainger was so obviously targeting Lewis.  Lizzie had nearly bitten through her bottom lip in an effort not to say anything that may have seen her up on a disciplinary charge for insubordination.  Grainger hadn’t noticed her lack of response and had kept talking.

“I’ll leave you to bring DI Hathaway up to speed, Maddox.  Let you dazzle him with your illustrated report.”

The flare of anger at this condescension stopped her from sagging with relief.  _Pompous twat._   She used the directive as an excuse to jog to her car, thankful she wasn’t going to find herself refereeing the two DIs in a war of words over DI Lewis.  Yet.

 

 

She finished the coffee she’d picked up on the drive back, detouring into the break room to drop the cup in the bin.

Lizzie, head down, made her way through the maze of desks and doors, taking a deep breath before entering the office.

It was empty.  A steaming mug of tea sat on Hathaway’s desk, indicating he wasn’t too far away.  Lizzie retrieved the tablet’s charger from her desk drawer, connected the tablet, and started reviewing her notes.

“You’re back.”  Hathaway dropped into his chair, spinning around to face Lizzie.

“Finally.”

“And?”

“It would appear Monkford was murdered in his own flat.”  Lizzie described the scene in the study and the discovery of the bank notes.  She made a point of highlighting the implication of the two bloody shoeprints.  “But it didn’t strike me as a robbery gone wrong, though.”

“In what way?”

“The rest of the flat was tidy.  Too tidy.  No sign of forced entry, searching, or struggle, and why take the body but not the money?  Why take Monkford’s body at all?”

“It was always part of the plan?  Perhaps they panicked.  Perhaps they’d been seen around the street and thought someone would connect them to the murder sooner if the body was found there.”

Lizzie nodded.  “With his body found miles away, it distances them, whoever they are, from the scene.  Do you think they knew Monkford?  That he wasn’t simply a random target.”

“I think that idea has to be at the top of our list.  If you were breaking in, wouldn’t you stick to the ground floor where you had a better chance of getting away?”  Hathaway swivelled hypnotically from side to side.  “Which leaves the question of why there was money lying around at all.  It was just the bank notes?  No wallet?”

“Wallet was there as well.”  Lizzie made a note on the tablet.  “I’ve filed the money under ‘questions raised’, which is much longer than the ‘questions answered’ list.”

“Were any questions answered?”

“The shoes were size 11 Converse, not that that narrows things down.  Monkford lived very... simply.  And the murder weapon was probably a chisel brought to the scene.”

“Chisel?”  Hathaway winced.

“Chisel.  There were no other tools anywhere in the flat, so it was unlikely to belong to Monkford.  Of course, we still haven’t located his car, so there’s no telling what’s in there.”

Hathaway narrowed his eyes and studied Lizzie intently.  Lizzie’s grip tightened on the tablet as she endeavoured not to squirm.

“What are you holding back, DS Maddox?  What don’t you want to tell me?”

 _Shit._ “One of DI Lewis’s business cards was found with the bank notes, sir.  I thought I was seeing things.  I’ve watched DI Lewis.  He doesn’t give out his cards willy-nilly and I would have thought someone like Monkford would be the last person he’d give one–”

“Old or new?” Hathaway interrupted.

It took Lizzie a second to understand what Hathaway was asking.  “Erm, the new ones.  Consultant DI.  DI Grainger was–  Sir?  Are you all right?”

Hathaway was staring through her.  “Another one?” he muttered.

“Another?”  Lizzie felt light headed.

Hathaway dragged a hand down his face.  “Dr Trent found one on Monkford when she did the post mortem.”

“Why didn’t I know about that?”

“That’s my fault.  I found out just before we went to see Christine Harper.  I should have told you.  When I went back to talk to her, it was to ask if she’d perhaps obtained them from Lewis.”

“Had she?”

“No.  Said she’s never met him, and I’m inclined to believe her.”

Lizzie worried the corner of her mouth with her teeth.  One card could be coincidence, but two, both in the victim’s immediate possession – that was another matter entirely.  _Bloody hell._   Grainger was going to love that.  She became aware Hathaway was repeating her name.  “Sir?”

“You started to say something about DI Grainger.”

She told him everything Grainger had said.

The flare of anger across Hathaway’s face was unfamiliar to Lizzie, and alarming.  However, “Would’ve thought the man had more sense and experience,” was all he said.  Well, it was more of a muttered growl.

“Does DI Grainger know about the first card, sir?” Lizzie asked cautiously.

Hathaway huffed out a frustrated breath.  “He will when the final post-mortem report comes through.”

“Do you not have it yet?  I thought–”

“Dr Trent called in sick.  Dodgy chicken, apparently.  She’s completed the post mortem but not the report.  Tomorrow, she promises.”  Hathaway leant on his desk, hunching forward.  “Speaking of reports.”  He nodded at the tablet in Lizzie’s hands.

She glanced down at the screen.  “It’s still a bit rough, sir.”

Hathaway held out his hand.  “Lizzie, your idea of rough is fine literature compared to some of the reports I’ve had to wallow through; I’m sure it’s fine.”

Lizzie rose and passed the tablet to Hathaway, along with the charger.  “Here you go, then.  I’m going to follow up on the ANPR search and then pop down to Forensics.”

“Right,” came the mumbled reply.  Hathaway was slowly scrolling through the report, his brow creased in concentration.

*******

James placed the tablet in the centre of his desk mat, rocked back in his chair, and linked his fingers behind his head.  Though Lizzie’s report had been mostly bullet points, it wasn’t short on detail, and the photographs she’d taken had complemented it well.  He’d been particularly taken by her attention to how the building itself could have aided their unknown perpetrators.  It was excellent work.  He hadn’t expected anything less.

He only hoped it would help the investigation, and not prove to have been a waste of Lizzie’s time.

James turned his attention back to the conundrum of Lewis’s business cards.  One had been worrying enough, but now…

“How did Monkford get his hands on them?” he muttered.  _Maybe he hadn’t.  What if it was the murderer who was given the cards and planted them on Monkford?_   “Fuck.”

James took himself to Robbie’s desk and opened the top drawer.  The open box of cards was wedged between a box of staples and a paper punch.  There was a one-centimetre gap between the top of the cards and the open end of the box, but without knowing exactly how many cards Robbie had ever given out, James had no way to determine if any were unaccounted for.  “I wonder…”  Robbie’d had the cards for less than nine months; James believed it might be possible Robbie could remember whom he’d given them to.  It could point them towards a suspect.  One question.  That was all it would take, but it wouldn’t be James’s to ask.

Grainger, who was showing himself to be a tunnel-visioned champion of stating the bloody obvious so far on this case – James couldn’t fathom what was going on in that man’s head; he’d always known Grainger to be fair and open-minded – quite possibly wouldn’t think of asking it.  The cards were with Monkford and in his flat; therefore, Robbie must have given them to Monkford.  That was what Grainger was thinking and would probably continue to do so until James, or more likely Lizzie, steered him in another direction.

James sat down again and lowered his head until it was resting on the desk.  Frustration at being at arm’s length was making him restless; he’d have to find some way of filling the day that wouldn’t land him in anyone else’s bad graces.  He couldn’t poke his nose into Forensics, not with Lizzie already down there.  He wasn’t worried about Innocent or Grainger, but Lizzie could give a look of disapproval to rival Laura at her most impatient and he wasn’t in the frame of mind to deal with that.

Going home wasn’t really an option, either.  When James had left the flat that morning, he’d left Robbie preparing to clean the oven, armed with gloves and the contents of the cleaning cupboard, wearing an apron and clothes any self-respecting charity shop would have rejected.  The oven would have been only the beginning of Robbie’s day.

To exhaust himself to the point where he couldn’t be bothered thinking, James rowed.  During the first few months of Robbie’s retirement, James and Laura had discovered that Robbie’s therapy of choice was gardening.  All day.  However, when there was nothing left for him to do in the garden, he turned to the house itself and cleaned.  Obsessively.  When Robbie had decided to build a canoe for Jack, it had been a relief.  Laura had been afraid her vacuum cleaner was going to burn out from overuse.  In hindsight, it shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone when Robbie had accepted Innocent’s offer to return to work.

James didn’t have a garden, so Robbie was cleaning.  It gave James a clearer insight into Robbie’s state of mind.  Robbie could have been worried about the case, but James didn’t believe that to be true, though there were certainly others who would.  He could have been worried about the impact of the case on James, which made James feel both loved and guilty, but again, James couldn’t see that being the reason either.  This case had the potential to throw a powerful spotlight on their relationship.  That was what was worrying Robbie – and James.

James sat up and began chewing on the side of his thumbnail.  If he were to turn up home now, the odds were he would interrupt Robbie and his ‘therapy’, or be pulled in to whichever task Robbie was in the middle of doing.

He turned his gaze to the window.  On second thought, James decided, mindlessly scrubbing floors might not be a bad idea.  He’d almost made up his mind to go when Grainger barrelled through the open doorway.  He slapped both palms down on James’s desk and leant over into James’s face.

“Why wasn’t I told?”

 _Here we go._ “About what?”

“Don’t give me that, inspector.  The business card found in Monkford’s jacket.  When were you planning on telling me?”

“It was a blazer,” James replied, more calmly than he felt, “and it was connected to the post-mortem.  If Dr Trent had been in today, you would have known when you returned from Monkford’s flat.  Who told–”

“I’ve just got off the phone to Innocent.  She told me about the card.  We found another one today.  A business card.  In Monkford’s flat.  In the room where he was stabbed.  Did DS Maddox tell you that?”  He snorted scornfully.  “Of course she did.  Cool little customer, that one.  Never gave a sign another one had been found previously.  Wonder what other secrets she’s keeping.”

James’s anger rose at the slight to Lizzie.  “Sergeant Maddox didn’t know about the card either.  That was between CS Innocent, Dr Trent, and myself.  And I’ll thank you not to–”

“That’s not the bloody point.”  Grainger was red-faced with fury.  “I should have been told about it when I was brought in on the case.”

“That was Innocent’s call to make, not mine, and she’s told you now.”

“You should have informed me.  Do you have any idea how this looks?”

“No.  Tell me.  How does it look?”  James kept his tone achingly polite.  He wanted to force the man out of his office.  Instead, he pushed himself firmly into his seat.  If he found his feet, James didn’t trust himself not to manhandle Grainger.

“Like you’re all covering for Lewis!”  Grainger’s voice had risen to a shout.  A quick glance through the door revealed several faces staring at Grainger’s back.

“Sir!”

Lizzie hurried into the office, her timely arrival stopping the situation from escalating.  Grainger clamped his mouth shut and left muttering about lodging a formal complaint with the Assistant Chief Constable.  James groaned inwardly.  He was all too aware his grip on the case was precarious, and such a report could see Innocent directed to remove him completely.

Lizzie’s eyes followed Grainger out and then she turned and stared pointedly at James, who merely shook his head, not wanting to go into it. 

“It’s my problem.  What’s up?”

“Monkford’s car’s been found, sir.”

“Where?”

*******

James drove them out to the Oxford Retail Park in Cowley.  On the same side of the Eastern Bypass as Blackbird Leys Park, the Retail Park was still a long way from Monkford’s Marston flat.  James had given Grainger the courtesy of letting him know about the discovery, receiving a grunted, “You handle it,” for his efforts.  Damn the man.

“Was the car picked up on the ANPR search?” James asked Lizzie.

“No, sir.  Miss Megan Wendt, who works at Tesco, reported it to Park security this morning after noticing it had been parked in the same bay since before she arrived at work yesterday morning.”

“At what time?”

“I didn’t get all the details.  I told the security officer, Michael Staines, someone would need to speak to him and Miss Wendt.  He said he’d organise it and meet us outside Tesco.”

“What about CCTV?”

“I’ve asked, but they’re not promising anything.”

“The whole area’s supposed to be covered.”

“It is, but they’ve had problems with the lighting in that part of the carpark so the question is not whether the cameras caught anything but whether there was enough light to see what’s on there.  There’s also the freezing fog to consider.”

The distant location of Monkford’s car in the sprawling car park was soon evident.  SOCO had erected a tent over the vehicle, its whiteness stark against the grey backdrop of threatening skies.  A tall, thickset man in black trousers and heavy black jacket stood in front of Tesco’s doors, scanning the arriving cars.

James nodded in his direction.  “I’m guessing that is Mr Staines.  Are you all right to do the interviews by yourself?  I’d like to have a look over the car before SOCO get it ready to transport.”

“Not a problem, sir.”  She unclipped her seatbelt as James drew up in front of Tesco.

Lizzie hopped out, and James wound through the car park, looking for an empty bay closer to where the SOCO team was working.

James observed the scene before approaching the perimeter.  The forensics tent stood in the row of parking spaces furthest away from any of the buildings in the Park.  Despite the distance, this section of the car park was a well-occupied area.  Staff vehicles, most likely, leaving the more convenient bays for the customers.  A black Kia Rio stood five spaces away to the right of the tent.  James wondered if it belonged to Miss Wendt.

He was surprised to see Hannah Mackenzie coordinating the operation.  She saw him and waved him over.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” James commented.  “I understood you were at Simon Monkford’s flat this morning.”

“Yes, well.  No rest for the wicked, or the constitutionally strong.  We’re down to half strength thanks to the flu, so we’re all doubling up.”  James nodded.  It was a common lament around the station every winter.  “At least this is connected to this morning’s search.  That will help.”

“Anything of significance thus far?”  Inside the tent, four SOCO officers were moving around the car.  The doors, boot, and bonnet were open, and powerful lights illuminated the interior.

“A significant blood pool in the back seat of the car, which, while not as large as the one in the flat, does indicate active bleeding.”

In James’s experience, dead bodies didn’t bleed.  “So he was alive when he was put in the car?”

“If it proves to be Monkford’s blood, yes.  There was also a number of blue fibres similar to those we found in the flat, and we found hairs on both front headrests; two different types from the driver’s seat, and long dark hairs from the passenger seat.”

“On both seats?  So two assailants, one possibly a woman.”

“That’s your job to figure out, inspector.  The steering wheel and gearstick haven’t yielded any prints, but they’re also the first things anyone with an ounce of sense would wipe down.  We did get some partial prints from underneath the rear driver’s side door handle.  We just have to hope they’re not Monkford’s.”

“Nothing… unusual found inside the car?”

Mackenzie moved so she was standing directly in front of James, looking into his eyes.  “Most people would consider a blood pool unusual, inspector.  We haven’t found any unexpected business cards, if that’s what you want to know.”

James had to look away from her searching gaze.  “It was.  Thank you.”  James realised with a start that he’d been hoping for another card to appear.  He’d started to consider the possibility someone was setting Robbie up, and a third card would have added strength to his theory.  He felt a touch on his elbow.

“Inspector, it’s going to be a couple of hours, at least, before we get the car back for a full examination.  There’s little point in you standing around here in the cold.  I’ll let you and DI Grainger know as soon as we have anything conclusive.”

James nodded his acknowledgement and walked slowly back to the car.  His phone buzzed in his pocket.  His relief was physical when he saw it was a message from Lizzie and not Innocent pulling him from the case.

_//Finished with Miss Wendt and Mr Staines.  Shall I wait out the front or come and find you?//_

James’s reply was brief.

_//Wait.//_

James sat quietly until Lizzie had fastened her seatbelt.  “Learn anything useful?”

“Possibly.”  Lizzie settled into the seat.  “Miss Wendt works in the café.  She’s on the first shift so she starts at seven most days.  She arrived at 6.45am yesterday and only noticed the car because her headlights had swept over it as she’d parked.  She was annoyed because it was straddling two bays.  She always parks in the same place and had never seen the car before.”

“Why didn’t she report it to security?”

“She meant to but never had the chance.  She didn’t finish until five – they had some staff call in sick – and, in her own words ‘couldn’t be arsed doing anything about it’ before she left.  When it was still there this morning, she made time to report it.”

“What did Staines have to say?  Is there any reason security didn’t discover the car themselves?”

Lizzie nodded.  “He wasn’t on duty yesterday but he did tell me that they don’t always physically patrol the car park.  They rely on the CCTV feed to pick up suspicious behaviour.”

“But not abandoned cars.”

“To be fair, sir, the car’s details weren’t issued widely until this morning.  Even if they had seen it, they wouldn’t have known we were looking for it.”

James accepted Lizzie’s point.  He filled her in on what the car had revealed.

“He was alive?”  Lizzie was incredulous.

“He was when he was put in the car.”

“What if stabbing him was an accident?”  Lizzie twisted in the seat, turning towards James as best she could.  “They try to take him to hospital, he dies on the way, and they panic and dump his body.”

“Would have been easier to leave him in the car and run.  Or call for an ambulance.”

“I suppose.  If they were thinking rationally.”  Lizzie tutted softly.  “Sir?  About DI Grainger…?”

James exhaled heavily.  “He called Innocent about the business card that was found this morning.  She told him about the first one.  That’s why he was so riled up when you came in.  He thinks we’re protecting Lewis.”

“Oh.”  It was a small sound, though heavy with unspoken words.  “And you think we’re going to be removed from the case.”

“I suspect I will be.  You should be safe enough.  God, I hope you are.  I’ll need you to be up to speed on all aspects if I’m not there.”

“I wouldn’t exactly be able to tell you anything, sir.”

“Not directly.  It all depends on the questions I ask you.”

“Sir!”  Lizzie was appalled.

“Please, Lizzie.  I promise I won’t compromise you.  DI Lewis would never forgive me if I did.”

*******

Robbie was in the shower when James arrived home.  The flat smelled of lemons and resembled a show home.  He could see the flat reflected in the oven door and the fridge-freezer door.  The menu for their favourite Chinese takeaway sat beside the phone with Robbie’s wallet beside it.  At least he knew what was for dinner.  The water stopped running as James hung his coat and then went to the bedroom to change.

Robbie came into the bedroom behind him.  He had a towel wrapped around his waist and was rubbing vigorously at his hair.

“Hello, pet.”

James turned for his kiss.  He nodded to the door behind them and the flat beyond.  “You’ve been busy.”

“Easier than thinking about what might happen next.”

“Dinner and bed?”

“No, you daft–  Grainger called me early this afternoon.”

“Oh?”

“I’m to go in for an interview tomorrow at eleven.”

“What?  Tomorrow?  It can’t wait until Monday?”

“Apparently not.”  Robbie held up a hand to James.  “Come on.  It’s not as though you and I have never had people brought in on a weekend.”

“No, but…”

“It’s all right, James.  I just wanted you to know in case you saw me at the station or someone told you I’d been there.  I know you can’t say anything, but with my connection to Monkford, I’ve been expecting it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“James, love, you have to stop apologising for things that are out of your control.  I’m not bothered.  Remember, I know the business.”

“Let’s change the topic.”  James kissed Robbie again.  “With the case coming up as it did, I never got to ask you how your catch up with your friend went.  What was his name?”

“Joe Merchant.  He was a civilian officer when I was at Newcastle.  It was all right.  He’s a good bloke, and it was good to see him, I suppose, except he was asking a lot of questions about Val and the kids.  Felt like a right idiot when I couldn’t tell him a lot about Mark.”

“It’s not your fault Mark rarely responds to your emails.  You make the effort, and that’s what matters.”

“Thanks, pet.”

“How was The Bear?”

“Dunno.  Never got there.  Ended up at the Turf instead.  I met Joe by the Camera at five.  He dragged me onto the grass to take a photo of him in front of the place.”  That explained the grass on Robbie’s shoes.  “Then he asked for a bit of a tour.  Stopped by Hertford Bridge and then followed a small group down New College Lane, and that was that.”

The knock at the door sounded loudly through the flat.

Robbie snuck in another kiss.  “You going to grab a shower before dinner?”

James shook his head.  “It can wait.”

“Come on, then.”

 


	8. Sunday, 1 February 2015 – Day 3 of the investigation.

Grainger hurried up the corridor, following Innocent to her office.  The thin folder from forensics flapped noisily in his hand.  When Grainger had informed Innocent he was formally interviewing Lewis, she’d advised him she would be coming in.

“Sit down,” she said, more tersely than Grainger thought the situation warranted.  He was only doing his job, for god’s sake, and it wasn’t as though he’d asked her to come in.  “Are you quite certain interviewing DI Lewis at this stage of the investigation is warranted?”

“I had intended it to be for elimination purposes, ma’am, to determine how his business cards came to be in Monkford’s possession.”

“Had intended?  Has something else come to light?”

“Yes, ma’am.”  He opened the folder.  He’d had to read the report three times to accept what he had read.  “It’s about the chisel SOCO collected in Monkford’s flat.  It matches the entry wound in his chest, and the blood type on the blade matches Monkford.  It’ll be a few days before we have the DNA results back.  It looks like we have the murder weapon.”

“How does this involve DI Lewis?”

“There were numbers crudely carved into the rubber coating on the handle.  It looks like an attempt had been made to scratch or cut out the markings, but it was unmistakeably an identification number of some description.  SOCO narrowed it down to a driving licence number.  They don’t have all the digits, but given the numbers they do have, they were able to compile a list of forty-seven names.  DI Lewis's name is on that list.”

Grainger hadn’t expected Innocent to cheer and praise the discovery, but he had hoped for more than the look of disbelief and disgust that was briefly evident.

“They’re quite certain?”

“They ran the numbers several times, ma’am.  They’re certain.”  He refrained from reminding Innocent about Lewis’s canoe building project.  There was little doubt in his mind Lewis had access to a chisel.

“Very well.”  Innocent huffed in resignation.  “Add it to the interview, but get DS Maddox to follow up on the remaining names as a matter of priority.”

“Yes, ma’am.  Will you be sitting in on the interview?”

“I had intended to.  Unfortunately, I passed the Assistant Chief Constable on my way in and now he’s expecting me in his office in twenty minutes to pick apart the proposed budget for the coming financial year.  Or so he says.  I’m trusting you to get this right, Grainger.”

“Just doing my job, ma’am.”

*******

James had finally received his copy of the post mortem results.  Monkford had died between three and 5am on Friday morning, confirming Trent’s initial supposition.  However, the stabbing had occurred several hours earlier, as evidenced by the dried state of the wound edges.  It backed up the blood evidence found in the car.  The stab wound had nicked his heart but wouldn’t have been instantly fatal.  Exposure, the result of being left in the open on a bitterly cold night, was what had finished him off.  Had it been a milder night, with people out and about, Monkford may have survived.  He would have survived if his attackers had taken him to the hospital.  As it was, Dr Trent had concluded he couldn’t have been out in the open for more than an hour before he died; therefore, his attackers could have left him under the tree anywhere between two and 4am.  The frost from the freezing fog had started to settle on the ground around 4.30am, effectively obliterating any tracks and contaminating any potential evidence.

From 11pm onwards, Robbie had been in bed with James until James had received the call out.  Anyone would be able to see Robbie couldn’t have been involved in the murder.  James allowed himself to relax a little as he kept reading.

Dr Trent had found bruising on Monkford’s arms, back, and lower legs that was consistent with him being tightly bound while he was alive; she couldn’t say with confidence what had left the marks.  She did note a heavy deposit of dark blue wool fibres on his blazer and jeans indicating the bindings were applied over the top of a woollen blanket or rug.  That tallied with the evidence of a rug missing from the study and fibres found in a car.  The lack of fibres on the shirt indicated his arms had been tucked in front of him, preventing any fibres clinging to the chambray.  The positioning of the body and the resultant pressure on his chest may have kept him alive longer.

James put that information together with what he knew of the evidence from Monkford’s car and the bloodstains he’d witnessed on Monkford’s shirt.  Logic told him the blood pool could only have formed on the back seat of the car if Monkford had bled through the rug, and in order for that to happen he had to have been lying almost facedown with the wound close to the seat.  Had Monkford been in any other position, the stain on his shirt would have covered a larger area.

James experienced an unexpected twinge of sympathy towards Monkford.  The average person would have treated a wounded dog with more kindness.

James rose and crossed the office to drop the folder in Lizzie’s tray.  Lizzie was out of the office, having responded to a summons by Grainger shortly after his meeting with Innocent.  He pitied her, being the pawn between two DIs.  It was an unenviable position for any officer.  James couldn’t do anything about Grainger; however, he could ensure he himself didn’t create unnecessary friction.

The post-mortem had given them a more definitive time frame of events.  Now they could narrow their search for potential witnesses.  Under different circumstances, James would have given Lizzie that simple instruction, confident she would cover all aspects.  Instead, James started the process of tracing buses and taxis that had been in the area of Blackbird Leys Park and the Retail Park.  He had to keep working under the assumption he would remain on the case to the end.  It was the only way to counteract Grainger’s current narrow view and, he believed, save the privacy of his relationship with Robbie.

He opened another window on his monitor and set in motion a request for authorisation for a door-to-door of the homes closest to the playground.  On the notepad by his phone, he jotted down each potential avenue of inquiry as it came to mind.  When he knew what Lizzie was doing for Grainger, James might find he had a complementary task he could assign her.

He glanced at the clock.  It was 10.54.

*******

Robbie approached the front desk at the station.  Under his coat, he wore a plain long sleeved shirt, a crew-necked jumper, and jeans.  He’d forgone a suit and tie as Grainger had informed him Innocent had recommended Robbie be interviewed as a civilian at this stage in the proceedings.  Robbie deliberately hadn’t said anything to James, not because he expected an over-reaction, but because he’d been reluctant to give James yet another thing to churn over in his mind.

“Robbie.”  Grainger had appeared at the door beside the desk and beckoned him through.

Robbie followed him down to the interview rooms.  No one Robbie passed showed any surprise at seeing him, which was as it should be.  Grainger didn’t say another word until they were inside the room.

“Please take a seat.”

Grainger’s distant manner put Robbie on guard.  He folded his arms across his chest and leant back in his seat.  On the table sat one of the smaller evidence tubs.  The case file sat on top of whatever the tub contained.

“Where’s Innocent?” Robbie asked.  “Thought she’d be here.”

“Called away by the ACC.  She is, however, aware of what I’m going to be asking you about.”

If that was meant as reassurance, Robbie felt it fell far short of the mark.  He’d have been more comfortable with another experienced officer in the room.  However, if Innocent had given her approval for Grainger to go solo, he had to trust her judgement.

Grainger started the tape.  “Mr Lewis.”

“Yes.”  If sitting on the other side of the table in a police interview room felt strange, being addressed as a civilian at the same time was even more so.

Grainger rushed through the preliminaries and the formal interview commencement before jumping straight into the interview.  It quickly turned into an interrogation.

“During the post mortem on Simon Monkford, this was found in his clothing.”  Grainger produced an evidence bag and Robbie was disconcerted to see one of his own business cards.  “Can you tell me how Mr Monkford came to have your business card?”  Grainger’s tone was confronting.

“No, I can’t.”  Robbie wanted to examine the card, to determine for himself if it was genuine.  He had to presume Forensics had done their job.

“When did you last see Simon Monkford?”

“I haven’t seen him since the day he was sentenced.”

“You’re quite certain of that?”

“Yes, I’m certain.  I’d no reason to see the man, nor did I want to.”

Grainger dug in the tub again.  “Can you shed any light as to how this came to be inside Simon Monkford’s flat?”

Robbie’s head snapped up.  “Flat?  Monkford wasn’t in a flat.  He was at his sister’s.  That was a condition of his parole.”

Grainger pushed another evidence bag towards him.  “You know Monkford’s parole arrangements?”

“It’s on the file.”

“Monkford and his sister were in breach of his parole conditions and Monkford was living by himself in a flat.  Where this was found.”  Grainger tapped the bag and Robbie frowned as it revealed a second business card.

“I don’t know anything about a flat and I’ve no idea how Monkford got hold of my cards.  I certainly didn’t give them to him.”

“Does anyone else have access to your business cards?”

“The box is in my desk drawer – that’s common knowledge.  I don’t lock the drawer so anyone could have taken a couple for whatever reason.”

“Are you suggesting another officer has used the cards to incriminate you?  That’s a serious allegation.”

“No, I’m bloody well not saying that.  You asked if anyone had access; I’m explaining the cards are accessible.  I also left some at the front desk when I first got them – only about half a dozen or so.  I’ve always done that, in case someone comes in about one of my cases and I’m out of the office.  Desk sergeant usually lets me know when he runs out.”

“When did you get the cards?”

“Last May.”

“And the box has been in your drawer since then?”

“Aye.”

“And how many times have you provided replacements to the desk?”

“I haven’t.”

“Okay.  We’ll check with the desk.  See what’s still there.”

“Is that it?”  Robbie wanted to go home and shower.  To scrub himself clean and remove the spectre of Simon Monkford.  Robbie didn’t have the faintest idea how Monkford ended up with his cards and felt ill that the man had somehow gained access to them.  He was even more thankful now that he’d never met with Christine Harper.  Robbie dreaded to think what Grainger would have made of that.

“Not exactly.”  Grainger placed another evidence bag in the centre of the table.  “Have you ever seen this before?”

Robbie reached forward.  “May I?”

Grainger gave a single nod.  He narrowed his eyes as Robbie picked up the bag and turned it over in his hands, examining the chisel.

“No,” Robbie said, returning the bag to the table.

“You’re absolutely certain of that?”

Grainger was beginning to sound like a stuck record.  “Of course I am.  Wouldn’t have said so otherwise.”

Grainger produced a pair of latex gloves from his jacket pocket and snapped them on.  “For the recording, I am now removing the chisel from the evidence bag to show Mr Lewis the markings on the handle.”

Robbie waited until Grainger was holding the chisel handle towards him before leaning forward to look more closely.  As Grainger tipped it towards the light, Robbie could make out roughly carved numbers, which though heavily scored through, were still legible.  Towards the end of the sequence, a chunk of the cheap rubber handle was missing.

Robbie screwed up his face.  “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“That’s your driving licence number,” Grainger said with confidence and finality.

“No it’s not,” Robbie countered.

“Look again, Mr Lewis.”

Robbie couldn’t see the point, but cooperation in an interview often went in the interviewee’s favour, so he picked up the discarded evidence bag and used it in place of a glove to take hold of the chisel’s blade.  He scanned the numbers again.  “If the missing numbers are four and seven, in that order, then it might be my number, but it’s not my chisel.”

“It’s a bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say, Mr Lewis. This chisel was found in the flat where we believe Simon Monkford was murdered.  You have a history with Mr Monkford.”

Robbie took in Grainger’s words, and his thoughts came together in the blink of an eye.  They believed this was the murder weapon.  They’d hadn’t brought him in for elimination purposes; they, or at the very least, Grainger, believed it was his chisel and that he was somehow involved.  That was a troubling development.

“When did you last see the chisel, Mr Lewis?”

“I’ve just told you, it’s not mine.”  Robbie emphasised each word slowly and carefully.  Innocent couldn’t know what was happening here.  One, surely she wouldn’t have allowed Grainger’s questioning and ground work to be so sloppy.  Two, she’d have a conniption when she saw the interview transcript.  Accusing someone of murder because of an incomplete series of numbers?  Would never have happened if James were in charge.

“Can you prove that?”

Robbie's experience on the other side of the table made him watchful, wary.  _Only answer the question asked_ , he reminded himself.  Don’t volunteer anything that doesn’t pertain to the enquiry.

“All my tools are locked in the shed at Laura Hobson’s place.  I never cleared them out.  And all of mine are Stanley – there was none of the Homebase value brand.”

“So you do recognise the chisel?”

“I recognise the make.”

Grainger hesitated.  “You say all your tools are at Dr Hobson’s?”  Robbie nodded.  “When did you last see them?”

“May, not long after I came back to work.”

“And you’re certain they’re still there?”

“I suppose so.”

“You _suppose_ so?”

“Well, I haven’t had cause to use them, and Dr Hobson’s never mentioned doing anything with them, so yes, I suppose they’re still in her shed.”

“That doesn’t rule out you specifically buying a new chisel.”

 _No, it doesn’t, you daft sod.  But how daft do you think I’d be to go out and buy a chisel to stab someone with, and then carve me own licence number into it?  Bloody hell!  If I wanted to stab someone, I’d go to Boswells and buy meself a decent bloody carving knife._   This wasn’t the Grainger Robbie was used to working with, and that bothered him.

“No, it doesn’t, but I didn’t.”

“Did you kill Simon Monkford.”

“I did not.”

“When did you first become aware Simon Monkford was to be released from prison?”

Robbie recounted receiving the first letter.  Grainger’s questions covered the same ground Robbie had gone over with both James and Laura.

“Are you aware of any attempts by Monkford to contact you?”

“No.”

Grainger returned the evidence bags to the tub and withdrew the file.  He sat it so that it rested on his lap and the edge of the table, making it impossible for Robbie to see any of the documents.

“Mr Lewis, where were you between the hours of 1pm Thursday the 29th of January, and 5am Friday the 30th?”

Robbie had prepared for these questions.  “At home.  In bed.”

“Can any vouch for your whereabouts?”

“DI James Hathaway, and possibly any of the neighbours who saw my car parked out front.”

“What is the nature of your relationship with Mr Hathaway?”

“We’re friends, we’ve worked together, and now we’re also flatmates.”  A small part of Robbie wanted to say ‘lovers’ just to see Grainger’s reaction.  He would never betray James’s trust in that way.

Grainger’s questions continued.  Some were new, many redundant, and all designed to try catch Robbie in a lie.  Except he wasn’t lying, not about his knowledge of the murder.  Robbie hoped Grainger would tire before Robbie’s patience wore thin.

In the end, Robbie was right.

*******

Lizzie returned to the office shortly after half past eleven, bearing coffee and cupcakes.  “Just because,” she said.

“So, has Grainger loaded you with tasks after yesterday’s two searches?”

“Not exactly.  Just the one, really.  It’s going to take some time to get through it all, but a lot of that’s probably going to be waiting for people to get back to me.  Why?  What have you got?”

James ran through the post-mortem report and his hopes for finding any witnesses.  “I’ve requested logs from the taxi companies and–”

“I know what you need, sir.  Leave it with me, and forward any responses you receive.”

“It won’t get you a black mark with Grainger?  What is it?”  A scowl had flickered across Lizzie’s face.  She opened her mouth and hesitated.  “You can tell me, Lizzie.  It’s just the two of us here.”

Lizzie closed her eyes and slowly opened them.  “The only one with a black mark, sir, is DI Grainger.”

“Explain.”  Lizzie bit her bottom lip.  James’s mind swirled with possibilities.  “Do you feel compromised?”  He’d have Grainger’s arse out to dry if he’d put Lizzie in a difficult position.

“No, sir, nothing like that.  It’s just…  I don’t like the way DI Grainger’s going about this investigation.”

“DI Lewis?”

Lizzie’s shoulders slumped and she huffed out a sigh.  “Yes, sir.”

“I don’t like it either, Lizzie.  Which is why you and I have to ensure Grainger starts to think more broadly.”

“Be easier said than done if Innocent pulls you off the case,” Lizzie replied glumly.

“We don’t know for certain that she will.  She’ll see beyond the supposed evidence of the business cards.”

“But it’s not–”  Lizzie pressed her lips tightly together.

“Not what?” James queried.  “Lizzie?”

“It’s not for me to say, sir.”

The skin at the back of James’s neck began to prickle with unease.  “Grainger’s told you something and asked you not to repeat it.”

Lizzie dropped into her chair.  “Shit,” she muttered, in a tone that did nothing for James’s confidence.  James waited.  Lizzie’s gaze flicked upwards and caught James’s eyes.  “Sir, I...”

“It’s not your fault.  I presume it relates to the task he’s given you.  Is that why he told you?”  Lizzie nodded.  She looked as unsettled as James now felt.  Had something else incriminating been found?  It was too soon for the full report on the items taken from the flat, and in any case, Grainger would see that first.

_Grainger would see it first._

“Lizzie, have you seen any reports from forensics on the search of Monkford’s flat?”

“No, sir.”

“But Grainger might have?  Or Innocent?”  Lizzie gave a slight nod.

 _Fuck._   Whatever it was he would hear about it soon enough.  There was little point in going around in circles now.  His priority was to protect Lizzie and Robbie.

“I think, Lizzie, in order to keep you on this case, it would be better if you temporarily relocated to Grainger’s area.  That way, I can’t be accused of attempting to sway your thinking.”

Lizzie stared at him in disbelief.  “No one would believe that of you, sir.”

“I wouldn’t speak too quickly, sergeant.  People can believe anything if it suits their purpose.”

“Yes, sir.”

James wandered to the window, as Lizzie gathered the items she’d need.  He turned his gaze to the street below in time to spot Lewis walking down the station steps.  According to James’s watch, the interview couldn’t have lasted more than forty-five minutes.  It was longer than James had originally anticipated, but given what he’d gleaned from Lizzie, probably shorter than Grainger would have hoped.

He turned at the sound of the computer shutting down.  Lizzie stood beside her desk, balancing an archive box on her hip.

“That’ll be me off, then, sir.”

“Hopefully not for long.”

“What if Grainger sends me back?”

“If Innocent does remove me, you’ll be moved to his team regardless.”

Lizzie snapped her fingers and waved a finger at James.  “If I tell him I requested to move across for the duration of the case, he might trust me more.”

James mused on the idea for a few seconds.  “It could give him the idea you either trust him or don’t entirely trust me.  Either point of view could work in our favour.”

Lizzie puffed out her cheeks.  “You want me to be the spy in the camp?”

“No, Lizzie,” James said with a wry smile, “I want you to be the small voice of reason that opens Grainger’s eyes to other options.”  He shrugged apologetically.  “And a spy in the camp.”

James’s phone shrilled on the desk behind him.  Lizzie left with a small wave.  James registered the caller ID as he lifted the handset.

“Ma’am.”

*******

Grainger was in Innocent’s office, fidgeting in one of the visitor chairs, when James walked in.  Innocent didn’t look as impatient about being there as James would have liked.  The deep lines on her face gave him more than a little cause for concern.

“Thank you for coming, James.  Please take a seat.  Now, Grainger, please repeat what you started to say about Lewis’s business cards.”

“It seems that DI Lewis wasn’t the only person giving out his cards.  The desk sergeant also had access.”

James could have slapped his own forehead.  He knew Robbie had been in the habit of keeping cards at the front desk.  He should have anticipated Robbie would have resumed the practice on his return.  If he had, it could have saved everyone a lot of time.

“It was a matter of a couple of minutes,” Grainger continued, “to confirm that three of Lewis’s business cards were still in the front desk drawer, and Sergeant Baines, who’s on today, recalled giving two cards to a woman who identified herself as Mrs Christine Harper, back in September.  They’re the only cards of Lewis’s he’s personally handed out and he remembered it because it was his son’s thirteenth birthday.  I’ve seen the entry in the logbook.”

“Why did he give her two cards?”  Innocent was frowning.  “Surely one would suffice.”

“I thought the same thing, ma’am.  He says he can’t remember; only that she must have asked if she could have one to pass to another family member.  He said that’d be the only reason he’d give out more than one at a time.”

James leant forward.  “Christine Harper is Simon Monkford’s sister.  She never mentioned coming into the station when Maddox and I spoke to her, but it could explain how she had Inspector Lewis’s number.”  _Fuck._   James realised his mistake too late, and Innocent pounced on the new information.

“How do you know she had Lewis’s number?” Innocent asked, visibly unpleased at not being aware of that piece of information.

“DI Lewis told me she’d called him in September, just before the hearing.”

Grainger exploded.  “And you didn’t think to say anything?”

“DI Grainger!”  Innocent turned on the older man.

“Ma’am,” he murmured weakly.

James held himself firm as Innocent turned her cold gaze back to him.  “Why didn’t you mention this before, James?”

“Because Lewis never met with her nor did he speak to Monkford.”

“And how do you know that?”

He couldn’t mention asking Mrs Harper about the cards; it wasn’t part of the official interview report and James wasn’t about to increase Innocent’s or Grainger’s ire.  James exhaled heavily and prepared for the axe to fall regardless.  “DI Lewis told me when I went to tell him Monkford had been found dead, the same time he told me about the call.  It had no relevance at the time.”

“No relevance?”  Innocent’s disbelief was plain.

“None.  Had his business cards not been found, DI Lewis’s name would have only been connected to this case in passing.”  James held her glare, daring her to accuse Lewis of suspected murder.  She remained silent.  James didn’t.  “Surely that information clears DI Lewis of any suspicion of being near Monkford at any stage.”

“Not entirely, James.”  Innocent looked disturbed.  “Mrs Harper will have to be reinterviewed with regard to this visit to the station and what she did with the cards – Grainger, make a note to ask her about calling or meeting with DI Lewis.  We also have the not insignificant matter of the alleged murder weapon.”

“The chisel?”  James looked from Innocent to Grainger. 

Grainger nodded.  “Didn’t think Maddox would let that piece of information slip by,” he murmured, holding out a photograph to James, a close-up of the chisel handle. 

“What am I looking for?”

“See that ‘engraving’ on the handle?”

James peered closely.  “Phone number?”

“SOCO determined it’s a driving licence number.  DI Lewis’s number.”

“That’s ridiculous.”  James pointed to the gap in the rubber.  “You don’t have all the digits.  It could be one of any number of licences.”

“Well, yes, but at this stage we can’t be certain it’s not Lewis’s.”

“I don’t believe you can seriously think DI Lewis had–?”

Grainger interrupted.  “So you think it’s a coincidence his licence number is on the murder weapon?”

“Alleged murder weapon.”  James sat tall in the seat and loomed over Grainger.  “You cannot say beyond all reasonable doubt that that is DI Lewis’s licence number, and I can tell you for a fact all of his tools were Stanley.”

“You sound very certain.”

“I’ve seen them.”

“When?”

“End of last April.  When Lewis started making the canoe for his grandson, he bought a full set of tools, including chisels.  When he returned to work, he didn’t have time to complete the craft and hired someone to finish it off for him.  I don’t know whom; you’d have to ask Lewis.  I was around at the house for dinner shortly after that and Lewis showed me the tools he’d purchased, lamenting about not getting his money’s worth.  They were all Stanley, and all unmarked.”

“James.”  Innocent cut Grainger off.  “Do you know if Lewis has ever had occasion to use them since he moved out?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“I presume they’re still in the shed.  He didn’t bring them with him when he moved.  You’d have to ask Lewis where they are.”

“Does Lewis have occasion to go over to Dr Hobson’s home these days?”

“Considering Dr Hobson isn’t there at present, I’d say it’s highly unlikely.”

“But he could have done so?”

“Not without a key.”

Innocent rocked back in her chair, bringing her hands together on the desk.

“Grainger, have you ascertained DI Lewis’s movements on the day in question?”

“Yes, ma’am.  He–”

Innocent raised a hand to stop him.  “I want to hear what James knows.”

The back of James’s neck prickled again.  This was about more than Lewis’s whereabouts.  Did they also suspect him of being somehow involved?  The day was going from bad to ridiculous.

“James?”

“Is this a formal interview, ma’am?”

Her face softened slightly.  “I’m sorry, James, it must seem that way.  I apologise.”  The glare in Grainger’s direction was brief but unmissable.  “I simply want to hear what you know.  Your perspective, if you will.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Inspector Lewis’s movements on Thursday?” she prompted.

On principle, James could have protested and refused to say anything further.  Except that could lead to hard questions about his relationship with Robbie.  He chose to speak.  “His schedule puts him at the training centre until four in the afternoon.  I know he had plans to meet up with an old Newcastle acquaintance at five.  I didn’t personally see him until he was back in the flat at 10.30pm.  He was there all night.”

“You’d go on record with that?”

“Yes.”

“Grainger?”

“That tallies with Lewis’s statement, ma’am.”

“Has it been verified?”

“Not as yet.  All the usual checks are underway.”

Innocent’s gaze swung back to James.  “Do you have any details about this friend he was meeting?” 

“His name was Joe Merchant, I believe, but you would have to ask DI Lewis for contact details, ma’am.”

Grainger spoke up.  “I’ve already got those, ma’am.”

Innocent nodded and addressed James again.  It was a mixture of an apology and a plea.  “Is there anyone else who could verify neither you nor Lewis left the flat after 10.30pm Thursday night?”

“No, ma’am, but I can assure you I would have known if DI Lewis had left.”

“Unfortunately, James, your word may not be good enough.”  She shuffled some papers.  “James, I’m very sorry to have to do this, but I’m removing you from this investigation until further notice.”

“Ma’am, please–”

“James, I’m not entirely happy about it either.  Unfortunately, in my meeting with the ACC today, he informed me he was aware of the current situation and he wants you off the case.  I was hoping this meeting would give me enough to go back to him and say it wasn’t necessary.  DS Maddox can continue to work with DI Grainger.  As soon as the matter of the chisel’s ownership is determined and Robbie’s name is cleared, you’ll be back on the investigation.”

Her belief in Robbie mellowed James’s indignation at being sidelined.  “Yes, ma’am.”  He couldn’t bring himself to look at Grainger.

“Come and see me tomorrow, James.  I’m sure I can keep you busy.”

“You’re not going to direct me to take leave?”

“I’m trusting this matter can be resolved quickly, and I’d rather you were here where I can keep an eye on what you’re doing, than being at a loose end at home.”

*******

Robbie was on the phone to Lyn when James arrived home.  A meaty and mouth-watering aroma masked the fading lemon from the day before.  Given the day’s events, James considered it a good ending.  If he’d been in Robbie’s shoes, he wasn’t sure what sort of mood he’d be in right now.  But that was Robbie all over.

“Worrying won’t change anything,” he’d said to James on numerous occasions.  “Either you can do something about whatever’s happened or you can’t, and if you can’t, there’s no point in tying yourself in knots about it.  It doesn’t help anyone.”  Admittedly, Robbie didn’t always follow his own advice, particularly where family, which included James, was concerned, but he rarely worried for too long.  Grainger and his tunnel vision could go to hell, James decided.

With a small wave, James headed to the bathroom to wash the day off.

*******

Robbie was waiting for James when he emerged from the bathroom.

“Are you off the case?”

“Why would you think that?”  James had hoped they wouldn’t broach the subject, not tonight, even though it wasn’t surprising Robbie had drawn that conclusion if his interview had been anything like James’ meeting with Innocent.

“James.”  It wasn’t quite a scolding, though not too far off.

James gave a rueful smile.  “Just until your name’s cleared.”

Robbie’s face was a scowl.  “Over the business cards, or was it that chisel malarkey?”  James pulled a face.  “Okay.”  Robbie raised a hand in a gesture of surrender.  “You still can’t talk about it.  So are you off work as well?”

James told him Innocent’s rationale.  There was a heavy pause.

“She might have a point.”  He took James’s hand and drew him closer.  “I know you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise the case, but you wouldn’t sit around idle either.”

“No,” James murmured.

“And while you’re not sitting around idle, you might discover something crucial; possibly something I shouldn’t be made aware of, being the _prime suspect_ and all.”

James’s eyebrows dipped and he pressed his lips together before saying, “Even if I did, you know I wouldn’t tell you.  I would never compromise you in any way.”

“I know you wouldn’t _say_ anything, pet, but since we…”  He released James’s hand and laid his palm against James’s chest.  “I can read you more clearly than I ever have before.  In this case, I might not know exactly what you were thinking, what you’d found, but I reckon I’d be able to take a damn good guess just by looking at you.”

James pulled Robbie into his arms, and pressed his cheek against Robbie’s neck.  “That could be a problem.”

“Only in this case.”  Robbie’s breath was warm against James’s neck as he spoke.  They stood quietly for some time.  Robbie could hear his watch in the silence.  “You know they really think the chisel’s mine, that I was involved in Monkford’s death?”

James broke away gently, taking Robbie’s hands in his own.  “I know Grainger does until it can be proven otherwise.  What happened to being innocent until–” Robbie’s kiss silenced him.

“Grainger’s just doing his the job the way he knows how.”  James pursed his lips in a silent, cynical huff.  “Look at it this way, pet; if it had been Katherine Dutta who’d been murdered, and Polly Beatty’s name appeared on a list of potential suspects, what would you have though?”

James’s shoulders dropped.  “Point made,” he said softly.  “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I know.”  Robbie kissed him again, longer this time.

When they broke apart, James rested his forehead against Robbie’s.  “Innocent believes in you, just as I do.”

“I could have done it, you know.”

James started.  “No.  Not you.  You may have wanted him dead at one point, and there was a time when I was afraid of what you'd do if you went face to face with him.”  James still felt shame and embarrassment when he remembered how he had been unwilling to tell Robbie about Monkford.  “You said then I didn't know you and I didn't know myself, but I do now.  I know you.”

“People snap, James.  Look at the facts: I didn't make a victim impact statement, which might have blocked or delayed his parole; and I knew well in advance when he'd be getting out, which gave me time to plan it all.  It won’t be hard for some people to leap to not unreasonable conclusions.”

“Grainger’s already there.”

“But so far he’s the only one.”  A long pause.  “He is the only one, isn’t he?”

“As far as I know.”  James tugged at Robbie’s hand, leading him to the couch.  “From what I’ve been able to gather, most people who know your name’s been connected to Monkford can’t or won’t accept you could be involved.  Lizzie’s fuming about Grainger’s handling of it all.”  James dropped into his corner seat and pulled Robbie down beside him.

“Lizzie’s a good officer.”  With an arm over James’s shoulders, Robbie drew him into a hug.  “Is she still working on the case?”

“Yes, thankfully.”

“That’s a bit of good news.  Got any more?”

“Yes.  Grainger’s looking into your movements on the day, though you would have guessed that.”

“I hope Joe can remember enough of the night to get his times straight.”

“Shouldn’t matter in the end.  CCTV will cover what Joe forgets, and between ANPR, GPS tracing on phones, and whatever else Grainger decides to try to ‘catch you out’, all he’ll learn is that you were nowhere near Monkford’s flat or the park at any time, nor could you have been, and that will be that.”

“I hope so.”  Robbie rested his cheek on James’s head.  “I’d hate for you to have to explain to Innocent how you know I didn’t sneak out in the middle of the night because you woke me at 2am full of amorous intentions which I was only too happy to go along with.”

James blushed furiously, his cheeks burning.  He looked up into Robbie’s face.  “God, I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Turn that shade of red if it does, and she’ll know you’re telling the truth.”

 

 


	9. Monday, 2 February 2015 – Day 4 of the investigation

Innocent pushed the file she was reviewing to one side when her PA announced DI Grainger’s arrival.  He was early.  She was undecided as to whether she should be pleased or dismayed.  She’d listened to the tape of his interview with Lewis and was regretting not putting the ACC and his budget papers off until today so she could have watched the interview at the very least.  If she’d had the slightest idea of what had occurred between Grainger and Lewis, she would never have called James in afterwards and questioned him.  Lewis would have good grounds for requesting disciplinary action be taken against Grainger for his approach and herself for letting it occur.

Grainger’s disgruntled expression gave her hope.

“Good morning, Inspector.”

“Ma’am.”

Innocent waited.  Grainger was experienced enough not to need prompting.

Still, it took him several long seconds to realise the ball was in his court.

“Oh, right.”  He slapped his hand against the file resting on his lap.  “All of Lewis’s movements have been confirmed.”  Though pleased with the statement, Innocent was appalled Grainger didn’t even attempt to hide his disappointment.  “I have four witnesses who can place Lewis at the training centre until after half-past four.  CCTV picked him arriving at The Turf Tavern at 5.38pm in the company of another man, and they left together at 10.08pm; there’s no evidence Lewis left the building at any stage prior to that.  DI Lewis used his personal Visa card to pay for a taxi that dropped him at DS Hathaway’s address shortly before 10.30pm.  However, there’s nothing definitive to say he was home all night other than Hathaway’s word.  I’m still waiting for the results of phone traces and the ANPR search.  Hopefully I’ll have more tomorrow.”

“I’m inclined to believe Hathaway.”

“You don’t think Lewis would be capable of quietly sneaking out?”

“Oh, I think he’d be perfectly capable.  I also rather think Hathaway would be well aware if he tried.  Lewis is not our killer.”

“Ma’am,” Grainger said patiently, “Until another name pops up, Lewis is the closest we have to a suspect, thanks to the murder weapon and the cards.  The ACC would want–”

“I’m well aware of the ACC’s position, DI Grainger,” Innocent responded with more patience than she was feeling.  “As for the chisel, it’s a very tenuous link.  What about the business cards?  Will you be interviewing Mrs Harper?”

“This afternoon, ma’am.”

“And have you spoken to Dr Hobson yet?”

“Not as yet, ma’am.  DI Hathaway reminded me yesterday afternoon about the time difference, so I sent her an email and we’ve arranged for me to call her in…”  He checked his watch.  “About an hour, ma’am.”

“Was she aware of Monkford’s death?”

“I didn’t mention it and she didn’t say anything in her reply, but I believe she is.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“She never asked what I wanted to talk to her about.”

_So, you haven’t entirely lost your wits, inspector._

*******

Lizzie manoeuvred her car into the only available bay at the Stagecoach Depot on Horspath Road.  She’d drawn a blank on taxis in the area, having more success with the buses.  The Stagecoach N1 Night Bus ran closest to the corner of Blackbird Leys Park where they’d found Monkford, with the last one going through at 2.35am on Friday mornings.  The driver or any passengers dropped off in the area the previous Friday morning might have seen something.  Two calls later and Lizzie was here to interview the driver.

Alan Roberts was in his early fifties and looked like someone’s favourite uncle.  Not Lizzie’s, but someone’s.

“How often do you drive that route on that shift, Mr Roberts?”

“Usually every night when I’m on nights.  About two weeks in six.”

“And how far into the two weeks are you now?”

“Finished.  Friday, well, Saturday morning, was the last.  I’m back on days tomorrow.”

“So you’d recognise any regular passengers?”

“I’d hope so.  Not always by name; faces, uniforms, that sort of thing.”

“Did you notice anything out of the ordinary on Thursday night, Friday morning?”

The genial smile faded.  “This is about that bloke they found in the park, innit?  Me and the others were talking about it on Friday.”

Lizzie nodded.  “Did you notice anything unusual, Mr Roberts?”

“If I had, I would’ve called your lot.”  He tapped on the tabletop with an index finger.  “There’s a young lad that might’ve seen something, if there was anything to see,” he said thoughtfully.  “Works at McDonald’s.  I see him quite a bit when I do that route.  He always gets off at Pegasus Court and walks back towards Field Avenue.  Did the same that night.”

“Do you know his name?”

Roberts shook his head slowly.  “His name badge says Paul.  That’s all I can really tell you.”

“Paul who works at McDonald’s.”  Lizzie made a note.

“Yeah.  Sorry.”  He shuffled self-consciously in the chair.

“No, this is fine, really.  Where does he get on the bus?”

“Um, the stop near St Aldates.”

“Every time?”  Roberts nodded.  He looked happier to be contributing again.

“Thank you.”  She stood and handed him one of her cards.  “If you think of anything else, please call me.”

Roberts rose, removed his wallet from his back trouser pocket, and carefully slipped the card inside.  Lizzie wondered what would happen to the small white rectangle in time.

Would it stay in the wallet for an indeterminate time or would Roberts throw it away as soon as he got home, as her Tony always did?  Would it end up in a drawer with countless other pieces of ephemera?  Would it join a haphazard mosaic on a pinboard somewhere, or be stuck to a fridge with a magnet?  She’d never considered where her business cards might someday end up.  “Anywhere but on a corpse, thank you,” she muttered, opening the car door and slipping into the seat.

She unlocked her tablet and started browsing.  If ‘Paul’ always caught the bus at St Aldates, he most likely worked at the McDonald’s on Cornmarket; it was the closest.  The only other McDonald’s along the bus’s route was at Botley Road; he’d be able to get the bus from the train station if he worked there.  Lizzie rang the Cornmarket number.

*******

Grainger keyed in the thirteen-digit number Hathaway had given him to contact Dr Hobson.  As the phone continued to ring, he worried he’d been given the wrong number or that he’d misread Hathaway’s handwriting.  The faint hollow echo on the line wasn’t bolstering his confidence.  Then,

“Laura Hobson.”  She was breathless.

“Ah, er, Dr Hobson.  It’s DI Grainger.”

“Yes,” she gasped out.  “Sorry, just need a minute to catch my breath.”

She puffed away in the background and Grainger wasn’t sure if he should ask why was she breathless.  There were a lot of rumours after she had suddenly disappeared on leave after splitting with Lewis, including gossip about another man coming between them.  Grainger had never thought it would work out between them.  In his opinion, Lewis was too old for someone as vibrant as Dr Hobson was.  He wouldn’t have blamed her for running off with a younger, fitter man.

He heard Laura cough, and then she was back on the line.

“Sorry about that.  My cousin’s rabbit got out of its bloody cage and we’ve been trying to catch it for the past half hour.  Now.”  She took a deep breath.  “I’m not sure I understood your email correctly: you want to ask me questions about Robbie’s tools.  Is that right?”

“Yes,” Grainger confirmed.  “It’s in connection to a recent case.  Are you aware Simon Monkford was found murdered on Friday morning?”

“Yes.”  Laura’s tone was wary.

Grainger sighed.  The satisfaction of being right was fleeting.  There was no point in tiptoeing around Laura Hobson; she was sharper than a good number of senior CID officers.  She would see through all the usual – and not so usual – questioning strategies.

“A blood-stained chisel was found at the scene of the crime.  Numbers carved into the handle were a close match to DI Lewis’s driving licence number.  I’ve questioned DI Lewis, and I’m now seeking confirmation of what he said.”

“You’re recording this call?”

Grainger’s eyes fell on the electronics attached to the phone he was using.  The red recording light winked at him.  “Yes.”

“Right,” she said emphatically.  “What do you mean by ‘close match’?”  Grainger gave her the details in point form.  “And I presume you’re questioning everyone else who was a ‘close match’?”

“DS Maddox is working through the list of names.”

“Yet you bring Robbie in for questioning immediately.”  Grainger could feel her scorn like claws against his neck.  “I can’t believe you could even begin to–”

“Inspector Lewis was brought in for questioning on another matter pertaining to the case.  The chisel was the second line of questioning.”

“Oh.”  Grainger heard a clock ticking in the silence.  “What do you want to know?”

“Do you know the current whereabouts of DI Lewis’s tools?”

“Unless someone’s done a break and enter, they’re in my shed.”

“Is your house currently occupied?”

“No, though one of my former students has been going in a couple of times a week to look after the plants and clear the mail.”

“Would they have access to the shed?”

“I didn’t give them a key, and they’ve no reason to go in there, so I’d say no.”

“What about the garden itself?”

“What about it?”

“If they’re looking after your home, I presume they’re looking after the garden as well?”

“No.  After Rob– DI Lewis moved out, I contacted a gardening service.  They come in every third Wednesday.”

“Do they have access to the shed?”

“They have a key to access the garden, but they bring their own equipment so there’s no need for them to go into the shed.”

“You’re certain the tools are in the shed?”

“They were there when DI Lewis left and the shed has never been opened by me, so yes, I’m confident in saying they’re still there.”  A note of impatience was creeping into her voice.

“What about Inspector Lewis?  Does he have keys to the property and shed?”

“No, he gave his keys back once he’d removed all his property.”

“All his property, but not the tools?”

“No.  He had nowhere to store them at Inspector Hathaway’s flat.  They were out of the way in the shed, so I was fine with him leaving them there until he decided what he was going to do with them.”

“Could he have had spare keys cut before he gave them back to you?”

“He could have, though I can’t see why.  You’d have to ask him yourself.”

“Dr Hobson, is there any way I can get a key to look in the shed for myself?”

“Why?  I can tell you for a fact that Robbie never marked his tools in any way.”

“It would help if we could see them.”

Laura tutted.  Grainger could picture her rolling her eyes.  “I gave my neighbour my spare keys to hold, just in case.  There’s a shed key in the bunch.  I’ll contact her and tell her to expect you.  She’s housebound, so you shouldn’t have any problem catching her at home.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t.  I know what your lot are like.  You’d get a warrant and I’d come home to a shed with a broken lock.  I’m only protecting my property.”

“Right.  Well…”  He couldn’t argue; that’s exactly what would have happened.  “Just one more thing: were you aware Simon Monkford had been released from prison prior to learning about his murder?”

“I knew he was up for parole in September, and if successful would have been released in October.  I didn’t hear anything else after that time, so I couldn’t have said for sure if he was in or out of prison.”

“Do you know if Inspector Lewis has had any contact with Simon Monkford since his release?” 

“As I just said, I didn’t know if he had or hadn’t been released.  On top of that, I haven’t been in Oxford for nearly three months so I’m not privy to Inspector Lewis’s movements.”

*******

Laura put her mobile on the couch.  She looked out through the sliding glass door to where her cousin was still attempting to trap the rabbit.  “‘Another matter’?” she muttered.  “But Robbie wouldn’t hurt a soul, not intentionally.”  Yet he’d been connected to Monkford.

She gave herself a shake. _With James on the case… but Grainger called.  Was James still on the case?_ “God, Robbie, what’s going on,” she murmured.  She considered and dismissed calling James.  She wanted him to concentrate on Robbie and not start worrying about her as well.  He still might – there was little she could do about that – but if she called, he definitely would.

It had been a mistake continuing to live together when they’d agreed it was over; she could see that now.  If she and Robbie had gone their separate ways after Prague, perhaps she would have been in Oxford now where she could be of some use to the two most important men in her life.  Instead, she was halfway around the world, baking in an Australian summer.  However, it had made a lot of sense at the time.

Neither of them could have anticipated Monkford’s early release and Robbie’s almost non-existent response.  In hindsight she realised her own reaction had been unwarranted.  Robbie never talked about Monkford, not to her, and she’d foolishly taken his silence on the subject to mean he’d been in denial about Monkford’s inevitable release.  The fight had been an unpleasant way to end things between them.

Getting away had also felt like the right decision at the time.  Now, she wasn’t so sure. _What if Robbie did have a key to the shed?_ She had no way of knowing what he’d done after he’d left.  _What if moving out the way he did was to distance himself not from me but from the…?_   Laura snorted loudly and then giggled.  If Robbie was going to kill for revenge – and, dear god, that was a bloody big ‘if’ – it certainly wouldn’t be with a chisel and there would be _nothing_ to link him back to the crime.

Grainger was grasping at straws because he didn’t have a clue.  Still, what was it that had brought Robbie to his attention?  Laura was itching to ask James; nevertheless, that was the last thing she’d do.  She was due to fly home at the end of the week.  She’d simply have to wait and hope she wasn’t going home to visit Robbie on remand in Bullingdon.

Laura picked up her phone and called her neighbour.  She’d love to be a fly on the wall watching Grainger try to get away quickly from the old dear.

*******

One call confirmed the lad Alan Roberts had identified only as Paul did indeed work at the Cornmarket McDonalds, and his surname was Chapman.  A visit to speak to the manager in person, who refused to give out more details without confirming Lizzie’s identity, yielded Paul’s address and the belligerently delivered announcement that Paul had never given anyone a day’s bother.

“He’s not in any trouble, sir,” Lizzie assured.  “Just routine enquiries.”

She ignored the muttered “routine my arse” and left.

*******

Lizzie turned into the short close off Field Avenue and found a place to park.  The address she wanted was a neat, though worn, semi-detached.  She walked up to the front door and knocked.  The curtains twitched in the neighbour’s window, and a young man opened the door.

“DS Maddox, Oxfordshire police.”  She held up her warrant card.  “Are you Paul Chapman?”

He nodded, studying her curiously.  Dressed in a Liverpool FC jumper, tracky bottoms, and socks, he didn’t look nineteen, which was how old his manager has said he was.  Lizzie automatically assessed him.  He was neat and well groomed, with no visible tattoos or piercings and no obvious signs of drug use, and almost as slender and lanky as DI Hathaway was.  Lizzie could believe he’d never been in trouble.

“I was wondering if I could ask you some questions.  Can I come in?”

He stepped back silently and held the door open.  Lizzie stepped past him into the front room.  A laptop sat open on the coffee table.  Beside it were some loose papers and an open textbook.

“Oh, have I interrupted your study?”

Paul shrugged.  “Oh, it’s fine.  I was only double-checking my references.  It’s not due until tomorrow.”

“What are you studying?”  The more she knew about Paul Chapman, the better she could evaluate him as a potential witness.

“I’m doing the Life Sciences Foundation course at Oxford Brookes.  I wanted to get into Biomedical Science but my GCSE wasn’t high enough.”

“Good for you.”

“Thanks.”  He hovered in the doorway.  “Um, can I, er, get you anything?  Tea?”

“No.  Thanks.”  She sat in the single armchair and gestured towards the couch.  “This really shouldn’t take very long, Paul.  I believe you were on the last N1 night bus last Thursday night.”

Slowly, Paul lowered himself onto the couch.  “This is about the bloke John and Eustace found, isn’t it?”

Lizzie hadn’t expected that.  “You know Mr Smith?”

“A lot of people around here do.  Eustace is hard to miss.”

Lizzie grinned.  “He is, isn’t he?  Yes, it is about what they found.  Paul, can you tell me where you get off the bus and which way you walk to get home?”

“The bus runs past here and stops up around the corner on Pegasus Road.”  Paul’s hands illustrated the scene.  “I usually cross the road and follow the footpath back here.”

“So you don’t go near the park at all.”

“Not usually.”

“So you do occasionally?”

“If I see someone I know I might wander up for a bit, see what’s going on.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Well… yeah.”

Lizzie employed a tried and tested technique: waiting.

“You can see a fair way up the road.”  Paul’s words tumbled into the gap.  “The lighting’s not great but if there are any cars parked on the road, you can see them, and if there is anyone larking around in the park, you can usually hear voices or the swings creaking.  The guys like hanging on this side of the park because there’s only the school across the road.  No one really to complain.  But there was absolutely nothing that night.  Not even a cat wandering around.”

“Could you show me the path you take?”

Paul nodded.

*******

Grainger re-read Lizzie’s notes on Christine Harper’s interview.  There was no mention of Lewis.  Grainger pinched the bridge of his nose and then rubbed his eyes in annoyance.  He didn’t doubt Hathaway was telling the truth, only whether Lewis had been truthful in the first place.  Normally, Grainger would have accepted anything Lewis had said on face value, as the man’s reputation was beyond reproach.  However, a man was dead, the man who had caused the greatest loss of Lewis’s life.  Every police officer knew grief had the potential to cause dramatic changes in its victims.  Lewis wouldn’t have been immune to its effects.

Grainger’s greatest concern was about Hathaway’s ability to be objective where DI Lewis was concerned.  Their connection as DI and DS had been one of the strongest and most intuitive ever witnessed in the station.  When Lewis had come out of retirement, Grainger had predicted DS Maddox would soon find herself completely ignored by Hathaway.  To everyone’s surprise, however, she had somehow managed to find a place between the two DIs, with the three becoming a formidable team.  To Grainger, that brought Lizzie’s impartiality under question, a not-so-minor detail no one else seemed to have considered.

It was up to him to stand alone as a neutral voice and it was proving to be a bloody thankless task.  Even Innocent wasn’t entirely on his side and she’d put him here for this purpose.  The role of devil’s advocate had never sat well with him, not at work, not at home, but here he was.  If Lewis hadn’t been a highly regarded police officer, no one, not even Hathaway, would be objecting to the line he had taken with the chisel.  Yes, it was a long shot.  Yes, there were other names to investigate.  That didn’t mean he sat back and ignored the one name he knew had a connection to Simon Monkford.  If he did so, CPS (and the public, if the information got out) would have grounds to accuse him of favouritism at the least and a cover-up, attempted or otherwise, at worst.  Having Hathaway think he was a complete bastard was the least of his concerns.

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t,” he muttered, dragging the phone towards him.  “Let’s see what Mrs Harper has to say for herself.”

*******

“How many times do I have to say it?”  Grainger jerked away from the phone.  He should have taken Christine Harper’s first answers at face value.  “I have never been into the station in my life!  I have never met DI Lewis.  The only business card I have is one from the sergeant who was here the other day.  I can’t tell anyone anything more about my brother, where he went, or who he saw!”

“My apologies, ma’am.”

“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me.”

“Mrs Harper, it wasn’t my intention to upset you.  We had credible evidence you’d been to the station–”

“Well, they were wrong, so it wasn’t very credible, was it?”

Grainger knew when he’d lost a battle.  “It seems not, Mrs Harper.  Would you be willing to come into the station to make a formal statement to that effect?”

“No.  I’ve never stepped foot in any police station and I have no desire to start now.”

“Thank you for your t–”  She’d hung up.

Grainger made a note of the call in the file.  If they had to follow up with Christine Harper again, he was going to send Lizzie with one of the female DCs.

Despite the logbook evidence, Grainger was inclined to give Mrs Harper the benefit of the doubt.  The desk sergeant hadn’t recorded sighting any ID at the time, so it was possible someone had used her identity to obtain the cards.  Bringing them back to who and why, or back to Lewis himself.

He groaned and stretched before calling to request a review of the front desk’s CCTV using the date and time recorded in the logbook entry as a starting point.  He’d need the desk sergeant to view it to identify Mrs Harper, if he could remember what she looked like after all these months.

It dawned on Grainger that he’d never had to call for security footage from inside the station.  He had no idea how long they held the data, not that he was going to admit that to anyone.  What he wanted was less than six months previous.  It wasn’t unreasonable to expect they’d keep at least six months’ worth, was it?  If they didn’t have it, he wasn’t sure what his next avenue of enquiry was going to be.

*******

Lizzie arrived back at the station, disappointed not to have any further leads on the case.  Paul’s view of the road and park had been exactly as he’d described it.  If Monkford’s killers had been there at the time, it was more than likely that Paul would have seen or heard some evidence of that.  She had hoped that by walking the path with him, it might have triggered fresh memories.  She’d left her card with him on the off chance he heard anyone else in the area mention something.  So far, the door to door had drawn a blank.

With the rear carpark full, Lizzie had to leave her car out the front of the station.  As she passed the front desk, the desk sergeant hailed her.

“Got a bloke over there who asked to see you.  I told him you were out; he said he was happy to wait.”

“Which one?”  It was a busy afternoon and the waiting area was full.

“In the corner, Fair Isle jumper.  Name’s Craig Harris.”

“Did he say what it was about?”  Lizzie didn’t have time for side issues.

“Hand tools.  Said you left him a message.”

“Thanks.”  Lizzie crossed the floor, and her fingers.

*******

It took fifteen minutes or so for Lizzie to retrieve a photo of the chisel and locate a free interview room where she could record whatever Mr Harris had to say.

“I was going to call,” he said as he sat down, “but I was up this way so thought I might as well stop in.”

“Thanks for coming in.  I really appreciate it.  I’m now showing Mr Harris a photograph of the chisel in question.”  In the image she’d selected, blood was clearly visible on the blade.

Harris’s eyes bulged slightly.  “Where the hell did you get that?  Jesus!  Is that...?  Christ, what is this?”

“Calm down, Mr Harris.  I take it you recognise this chisel?”

“Yeah.  It’s mine.  Well, it was mine.  How come the police have it?”  He’d calmed down a little, though his eyes were still wider than a terrified pug’s.

“What happened to the handle?”

“I marked all my tools – for security.  It took a couple of goes to get my technique right.  That chisel was the first one I did.  Made a right dog’s breakfast of it, didn’t I?”

Lizzie couldn’t argue with that.  “Mr Harris, you said it ‘was’ your chisel.  Can you tell me about that?”

“I used to have loads of tools, but because of the fucking…erm…bloody bedroom tax, I had to move to a new flat and had nowhere to store them.  I was going to throw them out but then I heard about a community centre that was looking for donations of tools and equipment for disadvantaged youth.  I dropped them off there about two months ago.”

He gave Lizzie the name of a centre on Giles Road, which was only a couple of kilometres from the park.  It wasn’t one Lizzie was familiar with.

“Have you seen them since?”

“No.  Can you tell me what happened?  That’s blood, isn’t it?”

“It’s connected to an ongoing investigation, so I can’t say any more about it at this stage.  I do need to ask you a few more questions though; is that okay?”

He nodded.

*******

Grainger stepped back from the front door of Dr Hobson’s home and took the small set of keys from his pocket.  Having knocked at the front door and concluding no one was inside at the moment, he let himself through the padlocked side gate, followed closely by Wilkes, the lone SOCO he’d brought with him, and located the shed. 

They were in a hurry now, having lost forty minutes with the neighbour, who’d looked as though she was going to start weeping if they hadn’t gone in for a cuppa and a piece of cake.  He had some idea how the poor dear felt, as his mother had been housebound in her later years and had delighted when anyone came to her door.  Grainger had lost count of the number of times he’d gone over to see how she was and had ended up chasing out assorted doorknockers and ne’er-do-wells from around the kitchen table.  He hoped that by stopping in they had saved themselves a delayed departure when they returned the keys.  “I have to get back to the station” had worked well for him in the past.

Grainger waited impatiently as Wilkes checked the padlock on the shed door for fingerprints and swabbed for any DNA.  When Grainger was finally able to try the key, the lock refused to yield.

“Christ!” Grainger muttered.

Wilkes cleared his throat.  “If anyone’s entered that shed in the last four months, it most certainly wasn’t through that door.”

“I did figure that out, thank you,” Grainger snapped.  “It’ll still be necessary to ascertain if DI Lewis’s tools are indeed still locked away, as he states.”

Wilkes, who had taken a step back at Grainger’s outburst, said, “I’ll be back in a tick,” and jogged back and through the gate.

Grainger stared after him until he returned.  In his hand was a can of WD-40.

“Good man, that’ll do the trick.”

It did.  Eventually.

The hinges were stiff, and the WD-40 was required again.  Grainger swore with relief when the door opened, revealing the dark interior of the shed.  Grainger hefted a heavy-duty torch from his coat pocket and swept the bright halogen beam through the gloom.  Compared to his own shed, this was practically empty.  A small petrol mower sat in one corner.  A bench ran along the far wall under the small window.  A power drill, sander, planer, and circular saw sat side by side at one end, and a large toolbox at the other.

He started when the shed was flooded with light, and turned to be near-blinded by the small portable spotlight Wilkes was carrying.  Grainger stepped back to allow Wilkes to enter to document the shed and its contents.  He stamped his feet to warm himself and willed Wilkes to hurry.  He was considering taking a brisk walk around the small garden when Wilkes finally emerged from the shed half an hour later.

“All yours, sir.  Nothing’s been touched in there for some time.  No fingerprints, no less dusty patches to indicate anything’s been moved or removed.  There’s no lock on the toolbox.”

“Right.”  It was turning into a wild goose chase.  Still, they had to proceed with due care, caution, and procedure.  Wilkes followed closely behind him as he entered the shed.  Reaching the bench, Grainger spotted tiny footprints running across the dusty top. _Probably a rat,_ he thought, and gave a small shudder.

With Wilkes beside him, Grainger opened the toolbox.  Like the rest of the shed, it was neat, with everything in its place.  Every tool he could see was a Stanley.  The camera clicked and whined beside him.

Disappointed, Grainger mumbled to himself, “These aren’t the tools you’re looking for.”  He chuckled at the Star Wars reference.  His boys had been talking non-stop about the new movie, even though it wouldn’t be out until the end of the year, and as a family, they’d watched all six movies multiple times.  Grainger wanted to lock Jar Jar Binks up, somewhere far, far away.

He moved away from the bench and leant against the shed door, only half watching Wilkes as he documented the toolbox.  While they could now safely state that the murder weapon wasn’t part of the toolset that belonged to Lewis, they were still no closer to finding out who owned or had wielded the weapon.  Only when they did that could they definitively clear Lewis of any involvement with the murder weapon.  In practical terms, the case hadn’t progressed at all.  Grainger yearned for some forward momentum.

*******

James slumped through the front door at the unprecedented time of 4pm.  Robbie had set up the ironing board in front of the telly and had apparently worked his way through a basket of shirts and t-shirts, all of which now hung tidily on hangers off various pieces of furniture.  He was slipping one of his own shirts on a hanger as he turned towards James.

“What’s all this?” James asked, perplexed.  He kissed Robbie’s cheek.

“Had to pass the time somehow.  Bloody centre sent me home at ten.  ‘We feel it’s in the best interests of the students if you were to take some time off until the matter is resolved.’  They’d already organised someone to cover my classes.”

“Ah.  Bugger.”

“Said a bit more than that on the way home, I can tell you.”

“So you decided to wash and iron all the shirts in the flat?”  James glanced into the basket, which was empty.

“I vacuumed when I first got home,” Robbie responded sheepishly.  “Wasn’t much else to do in the way of cleaning after that.”  He glanced at his watch.  “Oi!  You can’t talk.  Since when do you get home at four?”

James avoided looking at Robbie by bending down to unplug the iron.  “Since Innocent gave me the choice to go home or face an official reprimand.  She might still go through on that part.”

“What were you doing?”

From Robbie’s tone, James looked up expecting to see him with his fists perched on his hips and looking over the top of a pair of non-existent glasses.  He would have preferred that over the look of bewilderment he received instead.

“I’d gone to see if Grainger would tell me if there’d been any development, but the office was empty.  Innocent… may have found me sitting behind his desk reading the case notes.”

“James!”

“I was there less than ten minutes.  I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

Robbie tutted and removed the iron to the kitchen worktop where it could cool.  James folded up the ironing board and carried it to its place in the hall cupboard.

Robbie stood in the middle of the kitchen with his arms folded across his chest.  “And what were you supposed to be doing?”

“Innocent decided she’d make good use of last year’s training course, so she had me working through the overtime and allowances figures for the next quarterly review.  Which, by the way, I had completed and forwarded to her.  That was my mistake.  She wanted me to go over the expenses figures as well and came looking for me.”

“That’ll teach you not to sneak around.  Did you even need to go on that accounting thingy?”

James shrugged.  “I did learn a few new things.”

“Like what?”

“Accountant-speak; they like it when you use their terms, acronyms, and abbreviations.”

“Git.”

“You still love me.”

“That I do.”  Robbie opened his arms.

James stepped into the space, gently cupping Robbie’s face in his hands and kissing him.  “Am I forgiven?”

“It’s not me who needs to forgive you, pet.  Innocent’ll be watching you like a hawk from here on in, and you’d better hope Grainger doesn’t find out.  Was it at least worthwhile?  Did you learn anything new?”

“He’s spoken to Christine Harper and Laura, and he’s arranging to check the shed.”

“Why Christine Harper?  Didn’t you and Lizzie already speak to her?”

James sighed and pushed away from Robbie.  He took hold of Robbie’s hand and pulled him to the couch.  “I need to sit down.”

Curled up against Robbie, James started to feel at peace for the first time in days.  “It appears Christine Harper may have been the one who obtained your cards.  She says she’s never been near the station and it couldn’t have been her.”

“And you think she’s lying?”

“No, that’s just it.  I asked her about the cards when we interviewed her, after Lizzie had gone to the car.  She denied all knowledge, and I believe her, but the evidence says otherwise at this stage.”

“So she’s either a very good liar, or it wasn’t her who came in?”

“Something like that.”

“Did you hear anything from Lizzie today?”

“Not a peep.  I tried calling her.  She cancelled the first two calls and answered the second asking me please not to call her again until I was back on the case.”

“Told you she wouldn’t compromise herself or the case.  She’ll go far, mark my words.”  Robbie wrapped his arms around James’s shoulder and pulled him closer until James’s head rested against Robbie’s shoulder.  “When do you think Grainger will get into the shed?”

“When he gets the keys from the neighbour, I suppose.”

“Was that in the notes?”

“I don’t know.  Innocent caught me before I had a chance to read them.  But it’s a logical conclusion; Laura’s left keys with the neighbour before in case of emergencies.”

“Good point.  As long as he doesn’t decide to wait until Laura’s back home next week and can supervise.  I’d like all this to be over and done with before then.”

“A week at home by yourself.  It’ll be like retirement all over again.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.  Are you hungry?”

“Not really.  It’s too early.”  James hadn’t been properly hungry since Robbie’s first business card had turned up.  He’d eaten with Robbie, and at Lizzie’s prompting, so neither of them would worry about him, but could have easily gone without.

“What’s on your mind, pet?”

James looked up into Robbie’s gentle gaze and felt queasy.  He loved Robbie and trusted him with his life.  He knew Robbie was incapable of deliberately harming anyone, never mind killing someone.  Yet a small voice nagged constantly at the edge of his thoughts.

“You’re overthinking it all, aren’t you?”  All James could manage was a weak nod.  “Wouldn’t be my James if you didn’t.”  Robbie kissed his forehead.  “What is it?”

“You were at the training centre on Thursday afternoon, weren’t you?  Grainger isn’t going to go digging and discover you’d taken off early to run an errand and leap to wild conclusions, is he?”

“James, love, I’ve got sixteen witnesses who probably wish I hadn’t been there, not to mention the lads who stayed back with questions.”

James felt lighter.  The doubts and fears would keep coming back until the dust had settled on the case, but for now he had peace.  “Thank you.”

Robbie caressed James’s cheek.  “I didn’t kill Monkford.”

“I know.”

“And I didn’t help dump his body.”

“I know.”  James giggled.  “You were too busy exploring mine.”

Robbie blushed.  “Since we’ve got a bit of time on our hands now, d’you fancy…?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

 


	10. Tuesday, 3 February 2015 – Day 5 of the investigation

“Excuse me, sir?”

A Costa cup appeared in front of James.

“Lizzie!”  James looked beyond her to the outer office.  “Thank you.  But, should you be here?”

“There’s no rule saying just because I’m temporarily assigned elsewhere that I can’t bring my Governor coffee in the morning, is there?”

“Not that I’m aware of.  How’s it going?”  It couldn’t hurt to ask, James reasoned.

Lizzie’s shoulders dropped.  “You know I can’t say anything, sir.”

 _Oh, well._   “Can you blame me for trying?”

“Honestly, sir,” she said, mildly exasperated.  “I’d better be getting back.”

James nodded as she left.  He picked up the cup and slumped back in his chair.  No point in letting good coffee go to waste.  He savoured the first mouthful.  The cup stopped in mid-air before he took the second.  A plain manilla folder stuck out from underneath the top file in his in-tray.  James was quite certain it hadn’t been there before.

_She wouldn’t have…  Robbie’s convinced she’d never…_

He didn’t really know how long Lizzie had been in the office.  He assumed she’d arrived just before depositing the coffee on the desk.  What if…?

James put his coffee to one side and lifted out the file and folder together.  Opening the file, he placed the folder inside and then opened it.  It contained a single sheet of paper.  It was a copy of the forensics report summary.

James quickly took in the details.

Testing of the blood on the chisel had produced one DNA profile – Simon Monkford's – while the smudged prints on the handle had failed to provide anything usable.  All the prints recovered from the flat belonged to Monkford.  It was a similar result from Monkford’s car.  The blood in the back seat was Monkford’s and all bar two of the prints lifted had belonged to Monkford.  There was a glimmer of hope with the results from the partial prints.  So far, they hadn’t produced a hit on the database – so they weren’t Robbie’s, which James never truly doubted – but they now had a print to compare against when they did have a viable suspect.

It was a small win and James would take it.  He slipped the page into a small bundle of papers set aside on his desk and took them to the shredder.

He owed Lizzie several drinks after this was all behind them.

*******

Grainger was in the office when Lizzie returned from her ‘errand’.  He glanced at the coffee in her hand and went back to the papers on his desk without a blink.  Mission accomplished.  Inside she was shaking.  Placing the cup carefully on her desk, she put on her coat, grabbed her keys, tablet, and coffee, and made for the door.

“Where are you off to in such a hurry?”  Grainger was frowning at her.

“The community centre, sir.  I sent you an email last night in case I didn’t see you this morning.  I assumed you’d seen it.”

“Community centre?  What for?  We’ve a chisel owner to trace and CCTV footage to review.”

Lizzie kept the sigh in her head.  “I interviewed one of the people on the list.  He claims the chisel was his, and he donated them to the centre.  I’m going out there to verify his story.”

“Why didn’t you say anything last night?”

“You weren’t back by the time I had to leave.  That’s why I sent the email.  All the information’s there.”

“Oh.  Um.  You’d better go then.”

“Thank you, sir.”  Lizzie’s eyes hurt from the effort of not rolling them.

*******

The centre was busy.  Cars lined Giles Avenue, forcing Lizzie to park some distance away.  She took note of the vehicle registrations as she walked back along the footpath.  It couldn’t hurt to run some of the details through the various databases and see if anyone of interest popped up.  In spite of the cold weather, Lizzie was surprised to see a group of youths at work repairing the brick paving at the side of the building.

As she entered the building, she saw to her left a small office-cum-reception area.  Directly ahead of her, a portly man in his forties, Lizzie hazarded a guess, approached her with vigour.

“Are you Detective Sergeant Maddox?”  Before Lizzie could do little more than nod, he’d clasped her hand between his and was shaking it vigorously.  “Monks.  Conrad Monks.  I’m the manager; we spoke on the phone.”

“Mr Monks.”  He looked nothing like the image his voice had conjured up.  He was at least six inches shorter to begin with.  “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Not at all, not at all.  Always ready to help out the police.  Come this way, please.”  He pushed open a set of double doors with a flourish worthy of the finest butler in the largest house in the county.  Behind them appeared to be a construction zone.  “Our program was the first of its kind, though others are ready to commence.  We have a group of tradespeople across various trades who volunteer their time to help local youth and the long-term unemployed.  The aim is not just to occupy them but build and develop their skills.  There’ve been six blokes and two young women who’ve been offered and taken up apprenticeships as a direct result of this project, and we–”

Lizzie stopped him in mid-flight.  “Mr Monks, what can you tell me about donated tools?”

“Oh.  Right.  Yes, of course.  That’s what you mentioned on the phone.  Well, erm…”  His head swivelled around as though he were uncertain of where to go.  “This way, please.”

Lizzie found herself in a large storeroom.  Rows of large storage tubs filled the lower shelves along one wall, each labelled with the type of tool it contained.  Two were marked ‘chisels’.  Another set of shelves contained tubs all marked ‘to be sorted’.  A third set held a variety of toolboxes in various condition.

“We were rather inundated when we started the project,” Monks explained.  “This level of organisation–”  He waved at the individually labelled tubs.  “–has only happened since January when some of our older ‘trainees’, as we like to call them, took on the job.”

“Where did they all come from?”

“Some were referred to us by various agencies, others by word of mouth.  Some–”

“I was referring to the tools, Mr Monks.”

Monks last words became a throat-clearing cough.  “Of course.  We received them from tradesfolk who were upgrading their own equipment, disgruntled DIYers who’d decided to hire someone in the end, people forced to downsize for whatever reasons, more than a few came by way of women clearing out their ex-husbands’ sheds, a few folk were emigrating.”

“Who uses them?”

“The intention was they’d be used here in the centre by the trainees as they were learning.  If items were broken, it wouldn’t be a financial loss to anyone.  The response was so great that the lads sorting this lot have started building up various tool sets to match the trades.  The eight I mentioned who’ve gained apprenticeships all left here with their first set of tools, free.”

Lizzie was quietly impressed, and concerned.  Security didn’t seem very high.  There was no lock on the storeroom door, and anyone could walk in unnoticed and take any single item they liked.

“I’m guessing you don’t have an itemised inventory of the tools.”

“No.  We didn’t expect such a high response.  There was no allowance in the budget for an administrative person to do such a task.  It would be a full-time job keeping track of everything.”

“Do you make a note of who takes what?”

“Not really.  Trainees use the tools while they’re in the centre and return them to the tubs at the end of the day.”

“So apart from the toolboxes that were given, no tools leave the centre?”

Monks havered.  “I couldn’t say for certain.  We have a mix of people through the centre and I don’t think anyone would notice a single tool missing here and there.  Why?”

Lizzie passed over his question.  “Do you keep a record of donations?”

“If we know who donated them, yes.  Some have been dropped off at the centre anonymously.”

“I’m looking for some very specific tools.  A man by the name of Craig Harris said he donated them to you.  Do you mind if I take a look around to see if I can find any of Mr Harris’s tools?”

“Why?”

She couldn’t ignore him a second time.  “It’s tied to an ongoing investigation, so I’m afraid I can’t say much more at this point.  Could you check if you have a record for Mr Harris while I look around here?”

For the first time since she met him, Conrad Monks looked worried.  “Er, ah… Yes, of course.  I’ll, um, go look now, shall I?”

“That’d be great.”

A quick check of the Homebase website had shown the chisel recovered from Monkford’s flat was one of a set of three.  Lizzie hoped to find another one of the chisels from the set, or, at the very least, another of Mr Harris’s tools.  She grabbed the first tub of chisels, which, fortunately, was close enough to the floor for her to manage.  She’d need a hand getting them back onto the shelf, though.

She found an empty tub on one of the higher shelves.  Slipping on a pair of gloves, more for her own protection than to prevent fingerprints – she had no idea how many people had touched each chisel since its donation – she sat on the floor between the two tubs, examining each chisel in turn and placing them in the second tub as she did so.

She quickly eliminated any chisel without a black handle and those with clear branding.  Lizzie had sorted through close to half of the first tub when Mr Monks returned with some papers.

“Sergeant?”  He hovered over her.  “I have a record for a Mr Craig Harris of Headington.”

“That’s him.  When did you receive them?”

“28th of November last year.”

“And what were they.”

Monks gave a puzzled frown.  “Tools.”  Lizzie stared at him.  Monks blinked several times.  “Oh!  You mean what specific tools?”  Lizzie mustered a smile.  “I don’t know.  Only a couple of donors gave us lists and as I’ve said–”

“Yes, you were inundated and didn’t have the staff.  I do understand, Mr Monks.  Itemising this lot would have been a nightmare.”

“Is… will it be a problem?”

Lizzie considered the question.  Even if Monks did have a detailed listing, without images of the tools, or other evidence to show Harris had indeed made the carving on the chisel they had in evidence, it was of little use.  “No.  I will need to take the original paperwork regarding Mr Harris’s donation as evidence though.”  She dug into her coat pocket and produced a large evidence bag.  Monks dropped the papers in and Lizzie sealed the bag.  “Thank you.”

Monks continued to hover.  “Do you need any help?”

Lizzie heard the unasked question.  “I’ll come and find you when I’m finished here or if I have any questions.  A busy centre like this, I’m sure you have other tasks you need to be doing.”

He bustled off without another word.

Lizzie picked up the next chisel.

*******

Lizzie found the first of the two chisels near the bottom of the second tub.  She found the second one a few minutes later.  She was tired, sore from sitting on the floor, covered in a mix of concrete, brick, and sawdust, and elated.  Both chisels had numbers carved into the handles in the same manner as the murder weapon, and the number on the larger of the chisels was intact.  The missing digits, being zero and six, were clearly visible.  It was Craig Harris’s licence number.

She restored order to the corner of the storeroom as well as she could, and tracked down Monks.  The sooner she could log the chisels into evidence and advise DI Grainger, the happier she’d be.

*******

Grainger was ready to throw the nearest heavy object at the monitor.  Gurdip had produced the CCTV he’d requested, as well as the footage of the main door for the same date and time, and they were useless.  The picture itself was clear enough; Grainger could easily read the desk sergeant’s shoulder number.  The problem was the woman herself.  Unless the desk sergeant had been wildly inaccurate when he recorded the time of her enquiry, they had no way of identifying her.

Gurdip walked back into the room with a bundle of folders in his hand.  Grainger called him over.

“Are you absolutely sure this is the right footage?”

“Yes, sir.”  Gurdip nodded briskly and pointed at the date and time-stamp on the screen.  “And I gave you half an hour of footage either side of the requested time to allow for any variance between the recorded time and the camera’s programmed time.”

“Look at that!” Grainger exclaimed.  “She never raises her head.  Who wears a wide-brimmed sun hat like that in September?”  Only the bottom half of the woman’s dress and her shoes were visible beyond the brim.

Gurdip coughed.  “My English great-aunt does, sir.  She’s never without a hat.”

“Oh.”  Grainger paused the playback.  “All this tells us is a woman was given two business cards.  She could be anyone.”

“Look on the bright side.”

“There’s a bright side?”

“You know for certain the cards were given out, and I have the ANPR and phone trace results you asked for.”  Gurdip handed a file over with a grin.

Grainger hesitated to take it.  “Do I want to know the results?”

“I think you do.”

A quick scan of the documents had Grainger rushing to Innocent’s office.  He ran into Lizzie as he hurried along the corridor.

*******

Robbie looked up when James walked into Innocent’s office.  One look confirmed Innocent hadn’t told him Robbie would be there.

The conversation between them was quick and silent.

_“What’s going on?”_

_“No idea.”_

“Good, we’re all here now.  James, please sit down.”  Innocent’s smile was enigmatic.  “I’ve asked you both to be here so I don’t have to repeat myself.”  Her gaze travelled slowly from James to Robbie.  “Lewis, Grainger has confirmed your alibi, and also yours, Hathaway.”

“Mine, ma’am?”  James was impassive.

Innocent pursed her lips.  “Given that you both live at the same address, I deemed it necessary to ensure you did not drive Inspector Lewis anywhere, nor had he used your vehicle and/or phone.”

James had the grace to be abashed.  “Of course.”

“A GPS trace on your phones and an ANPR search on your vehicles concluded neither of you were in or around Monkford’s flat or Blackbird Leys Park at the relevant times.  A survey of the taxi companies gave the same result.  Grainger’s team is following up with passengers who paid by credit and debit cards to determine if anyone saw anything.  Enquiries with Stagecoach looked promising at first, but all that could be determined was that Monkford’s body was left by the playground after 2.30am.  As for his car, it was picked up entering the retail park at 5am.”

“And those times are supported by the post-mortem results,” James stated.

“Indeed.  In addition to that, DI Grainger supervised a search of the shed at Dr Hobson’s home late yesterday afternoon.  The report will verify what you and Dr Hobson have previously stated about your tools, Lewis.”

“What about the chisel Monkford was stabbed with?” Robbie asked.

“I was just getting to that.  This morning, Sergeant Maddox followed up on a lead she received yesterday.”  Robbie listened intently as Innocent informed them about Craig Harris and the community centre.  Beside him, James was carefully taking in every detail.  “Lizzie submitted two chisels into evidence today, one showing the complete number, which is not yours, Lewis.”

Robbie closed his eyes with relief.  No more waiting.  Maybe now things could start to get back to normal and James could get on with what he did best.

“So our suspect’s connected to the centre?”  James hunched forward.  “It’ll take some time to track down everyone who’s had access to those tools since November.”

“There’s already a request in for the centre to make its records freely available.  Personally, I hope there’s a break before we have to start that process.  That’s going to tie up a lot of hours, and the overtime budget’s tight as it is.”

“So what happens next?” Robbie asked.

“Well, I’ve had a word with the ACC and as far as the case is concerned, Lewis, you’re in the clear.  James, you’re back on duty, effective immediately, and Robbie, there are sixteen faces missing you at the training centre.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”  Robbie relaxed back into his chair.  Innocent didn’t.  “Is there more?”

“The appearance of your business cards in Monkford’s possession is still a worrying anomaly.”  She fixed James with a look that could curdle milk.  “As you know, Hathaway, Christine Harper has denied obtaining the cards and the CCTV is inconclusive at this stage.”

James didn’t blink.  “Has Lizzie reviewed the footage?” he queried.

“It wasn’t mentioned.”

“I’d like to see it.”

“The woman was wearing a wide brimmed hat.  Grainger said her face was obscured.”

“I’d still like to see it for myself.  I’ve met Mrs Harper; Grainger hasn’t.  Identification isn’t just about faces.”

“Very well.  Talk to Grainger.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Robbie had his hands on the armrest, and James was halfway to his feet, when Innocent said, “There is one non-case related matter I’d like to discuss with you before you go, gentlemen.”

Unease settled in Robbie’s stomach at the small, knowing smile on Innocent’s face and in her words.  James’s chair creaked.  Robbie didn’t dare look at him.

“Lewis… Robbie.  Against my better judgment, I turned a blind eye when you first moved into James’s flat.  I had assumed it would be short-term, a few months at most.  However, now…”

“There hasn’t been–”

“I don’t want to hear that you haven’t had the time to look.  I know your schedule, Robbie, and you should have had ample opportunity.  So what is going on?”

Robbie cursed the fact James’s chair was marginally further back from Innocent’s desk than his own and, therefore, out of his peripheral vision.  He didn’t risk a sideways glance, the suggestion of collusion.  Lying to Innocent wasn’t the wisest choice, either, and she’d see straight through any attempt to evade a straight answer.

“We’re… involved, ma’am.”

Robbie gripped the armrests.  He’d imagined James’s voice.  He must have.

“I see,” Innocent responded.  Her voice was calm and even, and possibly a little amused.

 _Buggering hell._   Not imagined.  Now he did look at James.  There was no reason not to.

James was leaning back in his seat.  It wasn’t a position of despair or defeat; his body and face were relaxed and his expression open.  They had talked about being up front with Innocent – in their usual manner.  Which is to say, the subject had come up, there had been a few raised eyebrows and shrugs, and a silent agreement reached.  There may have been whole sentences spoken at some point in the evening, but Robbie honestly couldn’t remember.  He did recall that their consensus, such as it was, was to be honest only if asked.  Robbie reviewed the last thirty seconds and concluded James had made the right call.  Best let James get on with it then.

 _Still, would have appreciated some warning_ , Robbie grumbled to himself.

“And how long have you… been involved?”  Innocent continued.

“Since October, ma’am.”

“That would fit,” was Innocent’s cryptic response.  _Fit with what?_   Robbie was wary.  James’s jaw tensed.  Innocent was enigmatic.  “In the first week of November, the desk sergeant commented to me that you appeared to have somehow swapped phones, as you had suddenly started answering each other’s calls.”

Robbie knew he’d done it once when they’d become tangled and turned around in bed, and another time when he’d had James pinned to the couch.  He didn’t know how often James had done the same before he’d changed his ring tone.  Enough to cause the desk sergeant some concern, obviously.  He felt his cheeks burning under Innocent’s searching gaze.

Innocent’s smile widened.  “I can't say I'm completely surprised.”

Which was not what Robbie had expected to hear.

“Oh, I don't mean it's obvious; you've been very discreet,” Innocent said reassuringly.  “It's simply that, in all my years in the force, I've never known a partnership as close as yours.  It always seemed within the realm of possibility that you'd end up living under the same roof, at the very least.  That it's become what you're now telling me it has, _is_ a bit of a surprise.”

With a fond smile, Robbie said quietly, “To you and me both, ma’am.”

“And you’re both happy?”

Robbie reached across for James’s hand only to find James doing the same.  James’s eyes were bright.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Innocent said warmly.  “Of course, there are certain practicalities to take into consideration.  Personally, as things stand, I don’t see the need to implement any significant changes.  Nor will I be placing anything formal on your personnel files.  However, it is fair to say you have worked your last case together.”

“Understood, ma’am,” James responded, his eyes fixed on Robbie.

“It is fortunate that you haven’t had any shared cases during that time.  Having to reopen an investigation because some smart-arsed solicitor decided to make a case out of your relationship would give the Chief Constable a conniption.”  She narrowed her eyes at Robbie.  “Would I be correct in assuming that’s why you so eagerly put your hand up for the training post when it was announced?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“When I first heard about it, I wondered if you were trying to distance yourself from Laura Hobson.”

“No, nothing like that.”  Bugger it.  “You may as well know that Laura and I decided to part ways some time before I ended up at James’s flat.”

“I was aware.”

That was news to Robbie--James too, judging by the sudden arching of his eyebrows.

“Is Dr Hobson aware of your current status?”

“Not as yet,” James said.  “We thought we’d wait until she was back in Oxford.”

“It felt somehow cowardly to tell her when she was on the other side of the world,” Robbie added.

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that.  As for telling people at work, it will be up to you who you tell and when, though why you’re not already to topic of station gossip is curious.  Your living arrangement is common enough knowledge.”

James cleared his throat.  “That would be DS Lockhart’s influence.”

“Julie Lockhart?”  Innocent tipped her head in curiosity.

“DC Hooper made a rather pointed comment to me shortly after DI Lewis moved in.”

“He did?”  It was the first Robbie had heard.

James screwed his face up as he nodded.  “Julie all but pounced on him.  ‘What would you do if you needed a place to stay and knew your mate had a spare room?’ she asked him.  ‘Wouldn’t you go there first?’  I have to say it shut him up.  He even apologised to me.”

Innocent laughed softly.  “I’ve heard Sergeant Lockhart can be quite the spitfire if she believes those she considered friends are being attacked or maligned.  Will she be an ally when the truth comes out?”

“We hope so, ma’am.”

*******

James said goodbye to Robbie, who was heading for the training centre, and went to find Grainger.

He found Gurdip instead.

“Hey, Inspector!”  Gurdip greeted him with a wide grin.  “CS Innocent called to say to expect you.”

“Gurdip, my good man!  Is Grainger around?”

“He’s just stepped out.  If you’d like to follow me–”  Gurdip headed towards a desk weighted down with various pieces of technology.  “I’ll set up the footage for you.”

James rolled a chair away from the desk and sat down, giving Gurdip room to work.  James was fidgety and restless.  He was feeling quite… he wasn’t sure what.  He was terrified and giddy knowing Innocent knew about him and Robbie.  He was bubbling with happiness where he had anticipated he’d be tied in knots, expecting the worst for their careers.  He was hyperaware of concealing his joy.  One well-timed question from the wrong (or even right) person could be his undoing.  It was fine for Robbie, he was off to the training centre, and was often bright and cheery, so no one would suspect anything had changed.  Yet everything had, and would continue to change.

The back of his neck prickled and he looked over his shoulder to find Grainger watching him from the doorway.  James raised a hand to acknowledge him and was startled when Grainger ducked his head.

“There you are, sir.  Ready to go.”

“Thanks, Gurdip.  I can manage from here.” 

Gurdip headed back to his own desk, spotting Grainger on the way.  “Sir.  It’s all set up.”

Grainger nodded his acknowledgement and pulled up a second chair up to the desk beside James.

James started the playback.  After several heavy, silent minutes, Grainger said, “I’m sorry.”  James blinked at him.  “About Lewis, having him down as a suspect, causing you to be taken off the case.”

“You were just doing your job.  There’s–”  James peered at the monitor and quickly paused the playback.  “Are we sure this is the correct time stamp?”

“Gurdip assures me it is, and he knows what he’s doing with this tech stuff.”

“Well, I can tell you that that is _not_ Christine Harper.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I’ve met Christine Harper.  At the beginning of this investigation and back in 2009.  Mrs Harper is taller than that.  Look.”  James pointed at the monitor.  “Mrs Harper’s close to Lizzie’s height.  She wouldn’t have to go up on tiptoe to reach across the counter like that.”

James skipped back twenty minutes and ran the video on fast-forward until he’d gone twenty minutes past the time in the logbook.  Christine Harper didn’t appear at any stage.  He went back to the woman originally identified.  She was the only person on tape who had received anything resembling business cards within the forty minutes of footage.

He tapped the screen.  “That’s the woman we want, and it’s not Christine Harper.”

“Then who is it?”

James rocked back in the chair and put his hands behind his head.  “I’m not sure, but I think I can take an educated guess.”

*******

James acted on his hunch.  He made two phone calls and had a meeting with Innocent, before walking out of the station at five.  He sent Robbie a text telling him not to make dinner, and half an hour later walked into the flat bearing an Indian takeaway and beer.

Robbie met him with a kiss and relieved him of the bags.

“You grab a shower, love, and I’ll sort this.”

James washed quickly, coming out of the bathroom to find the table set and Robbie standing by the table, waiting for him.

“Hungry, pet?”

“Absolutely starving.”  It felt good to want to eat.

“Get stuck in, then.”

Neither said much as they ate, both concentrating on eating as much as possible.  Robbie had seemingly done a far better job of concealing his anxiety over the past few days.  James used his beer to push the last, ill-advised piece of naan down, emptying the bottle, and then pushed his plate away.

Robbie was grinning indulgently at him.  “That you done, then?”

James nodded.  “If eat another bite, I may burst.”  A long, loud burp caught him by surprise.  “Shit.  Excuse me.”

“Better out than in, lad.”  Robbie pushed away from the table with a satisfied groan.  “Best get this lot cleared away.  I’ll put the plates and cutlery in to soak if you put the rubbish out.  Do you think you’ll manage?”

James had staggered as he got to his feet.  “Ha!  I’m fine, thank you.  And you say I’m the cheeky one.”

James returned to the kitchen and pulled two beers from the fridge.  He caught Robbie’s attention and waved towards the couch.  James curled himself into the corner and smiled happily as Robbie fitted his body against him.

“How was the rest of your day?” he asked Robbie.

“It was good.  Everyone was so pleased to see me back, even the trainees!”

“They really missed you?”

“They missed me.”  Robbie beamed at James.

James stared incredulously.  “But you were gone for less than two days!”

“What can I say?  They like me.”

“Everyone likes you.”  James slumped down a little.

Robbie drew away slightly and, with one finger, tilted James’s face up towards him.  “Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“Doing a good imitation of it.”  Robbie grinned.

He was a little jealous.  However, he didn’t begrudge Robbie his moment of happiness.  Besides, he was the one curled on the couch with Robbie.

“They like you; you like them.  I have your love and I love you.  They’re the ones who should be jealous.”

Robbie kissed him.  It was gentle, yet possessive.  Soft, yet passionate.  Brief, yet its memory would linger.

They broke apart with a soft sigh.  Robbie touched his forehead to James’s brow.  “So how did your day pan out?”

James wriggled around until he could slip his arms around Robbie.  “I think I’ve worked out how Simon Monkford came to be in possession of your business cards.”

“Should you be telling me this?”

“I cleared it with Innocent.  She felt it was only fair to let you know… given the circumstances.”  James waited for Robbie to signal him to continue.  “Miss Eleanor Monkford.”

“Eleanor Monkford?”  Robbie was puzzled.

“Simon Monkford’s aunt.  I realised we’d never asked how Christine Harper came to have your new number.  Then I saw the CCTV of the woman who picked up the cards; she was shorter, heavier set, and dressed quite differently.  So, I rang Mrs Harper – she didn’t exactly sound thrilled to hear from me.  Long story short, she confirmed her aunt, Eleanor Monkford, had given her your number when she’d ‘encouraged’ Christine to call you.”

“And you think it was this Eleanor Monkford who came into the station?”

“That’s my theory.  I’ve yet to speak to Miss Monkford – Mrs Harper stressed the ‘Miss’ – but it’s the most likely scenario.  When Lizzie and I interviewed Christine Harper, she referred to her aunt pressuring her to support her brother and to try and get you to talk to him after his release.”

“A favoured nephew?”

“Or a matter of family pride.”  James took a long drink and settled against Robbie.  “Lizzie and I are going to see her tomorrow, after we talk to Monkford’s parole officer.”

“Have they not been spoken to yet?”

“She’s been away on holiday and will be back at work tomorrow.  We have a ten o’clock appointment.”

“Ten, eh?  Does that mean you’re having a later start tomorrow?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

“You never do.”

“Do you think I should?”

“You might need to by the time I finish with you tonight.”

“Is that a threat?”  James grinned wickedly.

“It’s a promise, pet.”

“Whatever will Innocent say?”

 


	11. Wednesday, 4 February 2015 – Day 6 of the investigation

Lizzie matched Hathaway stride for stride along the street and up a short flight of stairs.  Caroline Baird, Monkford’s parole officer, was expecting them and they were running late.  Lizzie had been preparing to go on her own when she’d received a text message.

_//Will be in the car out the front in 10 minutes.  Meet me there.//_

Hathaway had stopped the car long enough for her to get in and close the door before driving off. 

“Sorry, overslept,” was all he’d offered by way of explanation.

Lizzie had studied him out of the corner of her eye.  He was tired.  Not surprising really.  Lizzie hadn’t been sleeping well, and she wasn’t as close to DI Lewis as Hathaway was.  If she was the one forced to step to one side as he had been, and it was her best friend in need, Lizzie doubted she would have slept at all.  With Lewis now in the clear, Hathaway must have collapsed into bed.

He also looked dishevelled, as though he hadn’t looked in a mirror that morning.  She’d bitten back a smile as Hathaway had glanced in the rear view mirror at that moment, tutted, and started running one hand over his head to flatten the unruly tufts.

The blast of cold air that struck them as they got out of the car had undone any good his improvised grooming had achieved.  He’d looked at Lizzie, who must have been a sight in the wind, shrugged in defeat, and then taken off up the street to the nondescript building containing Baird’s office.

A security officer directed them to the third floor, where they found a suite of parole officers.  A woman stood stiffly by the lifts.  At first glance, Lizzie put her in her late 30s.  Dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved blouse, she was clearly going for casual and approachable; it might have worked if her face wasn’t so severe.

“DI Hathaway?”  James stepped forward and held out his hand in greeting.  “I’m Caroline Baird.  You’re late.”  She turned on her heel and walked through the door behind her. 

Her abruptness rooted Lizzie to the spot.  Hathaway stared at his hand where it hovered in empty space.  His startled expression said it all.

“Tetchy,” Lizzie mouthed before they both recovered and followed Ms Baird.

“My apologies, Ms Baird.  It was entirely my fault.”

She pointed to the chairs in front of a desk, which bore a monitor and keyboard, a desk mat, and a single filing tray with several unmarked files. 

“I’m on a tight schedule, and this is an awkward time, inspector.  My supervisor said you wanted to ask me some questions about Simon Monkford and he’s due in here in ten minutes.”

Lizzie felt her mouth drop open.  _How could she not know?_   Monkford’s death had been all over the papers.  She looked more closely at Ms Baird.  Under the unflattering fluorescent light, deep, dark rings were visible under her eyes.

Hathaway glanced back towards Lizzie.  He was as baffled as she was.

“Inspector?”  Caroline Baird tapped a finger impatiently on the desk, pulling Hathaway’s focus back to her.

“Ms Baird, would I be correct in assuming you’ve been away from Oxford until quite recently?”

“What does that have to do–?”

“Yes or no, Ms Baird.”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t seen a recent newspaper?”

“I haven’t seen a paper, turned on the telly, or listened to the radio since I got home last night.  I did listen to several terse messages from my supervisor insisting I be in for this meeting.”

“Ms Baird, Simon Monkford won’t be coming in for his appointment.  He was found murdered early Friday morning.”

Caroline Baird fell back against her seat with a loud whomp.  “I don’t believe it,” she said in an awed whisper.  “She really did it.”

Lizzie leant forward, intrigued, as did Hathaway, who asked, “Who did what?”

Ms Baird gaped at them.  “Unbelievable,” she muttered, slowly shaking her head.

Hathaway cleared his throat loudly.  “Ms Baird.  Who did it?”

She blinked.  “I don’t know.”

“You just said–”

“There were two of them, you see.  Two different women threatened him.”

Lizzie readied her tablet and waited.

“When was this?”  Hathaway had drawn himself up to full height.  Lizzie had never met another man who could loom even while sitting down.

Christine Baird turned to the laptop on her desk.  “I made notes on Simon’s file.”  She tapped the touch pad, frowning.  “Okay.  The first incident was on Wednesday 3rd of December.  I’d had a gap after Simon’s appointment and had gone out for a coffee; it would have been perhaps ten minutes after Simon had left my office.  He was out the front talking to a woman.  I don’t know what they were talking about, but he looked confused and then she shouted that he deserved to die and he’d better watch his back, before she stalked off.”

“Can you describe the woman?”

“I didn’t make any notes about that.  My view was blocked by Simon.  I only made a note of that incident because Simon looked confused and it happened on the property.”

“Can you remember anything at all?”

Ms Baird closed her eyes, furrowing her brow in concentration.  “Um.  Shorter than Simon.  Maybe five foot five.  Slim but not skinny.  Jeans, coat, knitted hat.”  She looked up and sighed.  “Sorry, that’s it.  I doubt I’d recognise her if I saw her again.”

Hathaway nodded, his lips pressed tightly together.  “Could she have been a client here as well?” he asked after a long pause.

“I didn’t see her face.  It’s possible.  There are probation and parole officers on two floors of this building.  Sorry.”

“And the second incident?”

“Ah, yes.  That was Christmas Eve.”  Her eyes darted around the screen.  “Christine.  Simon called her Christine.”

Lizzie and James exchanged a knowing glance.

“Here it is.  Same situation as before.  I’d gone out for coffee and Simon was waiting out the front.  A woman walked up to him.  I saw her quite well.”  She described Christine Harper perfectly.  “I’d definitely know her if I saw her.  She was furious even before either of them opened their mouths.  She slapped his face and pushed him; there was no warning and he hadn’t done anything that I could see.  Then she said, ‘I’ll stop you.  If I have to kill you, I’ll stop you, you conniving bastard.’  She shoved him again and rushed away.  Simon called out, ‘Christine’, and ran off after her.  That was the last time I saw Simon.  He saw one of my colleagues for his January 14 appointment.  There are no comments on his file, but he did attend.”

“So as far you’re aware, he wasn’t concerned by either threat?”

“No.  I did ask him about the first one.  He said he had no idea who the woman was and thought she’d mistaken him for someone else.”

“What was your impression of Simon Monkford, Ms Baird?” Lizzie asked.  She was curious about the man who’d had such a profound impact on Hathaway and Lewis and had been frustrated at the way no one spoke about him.  Know the victim and you have a good chance of finding clues to the killer.  Lizzie still felt very much in the dark about Monkford.

“Professionally, he was the perfect parolee; if there can be such a thing.  Never missed an appointment, even though he was on an odd three-week schedule, never late, always well dressed and neatly groomed, unfailingly polite and well mannered.  He was quite keen to start retraining for a new career, though we had yet to settle on where he would be best suited.”

“And privately, if you’re comfortable saying so.”

“He was a slimy, odious man, who carried little remorse for his crimes, and believed the world owed him a living and a comfortable lifestyle.  If it wasn’t for the fact I had other clients to see on those Wednesdays after seeing him, I would have gone home to shower and have a stiff drink after speaking with him.”

Hathaway’s head cocked with curiosity, and Lizzie bit her bottom lip at the question she knew was coming.

“Ms Baird, you didn’t by any chance kill Simon Monkford yourself, did you?”

“Absolutely not!” she cried indignantly.  “Though I hate the fact I can’t say I’m sorry he’s not coming back.”  She was flushed red.  Lizzie couldn’t decide if it was due to fury, embarrassment, or guilt-edged relief.

“Thank you for your time, Ms Baird.”  Hathaway rose smoothly to his feet.  “We’ll have a warrant arranged requesting the release of Monkford’s files into evidence, and we’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.”

Lizzie slipped another of her cards onto Christine Baird’s desk and then followed Hathaway to the lifts.  It hadn’t escaped her notice that both Grainger and Hathaway had been reluctant to offer their business cards to anyone on this case.  _Get a grip,_ she chided herself.  _Don’t get paranoid._

The lift doors opened with a rattle and they stepped inside.  As it began its journey to the ground floor, Hathaway remarked, “It looks like we need to have another chat with Mrs Harper after we speak to her aunt.”

“Families, eh, sir?”

Hathaway was silent.

*******

Eleanor Monkford lived in Littleworth, which was a kilometre or so away from Christine Harper as the crow flew, and James and Lizzie’s next stop.

The woman who answered the door was wearing the same patterned dress as that of the woman James had seen in the CCTV footage.  The cardigan she wore over the top was in need of a good wash.  Her eyes were red and puffy from crying and dark circles underneath attested to a lack of sleep.

At least one person was mourning the death of Simon Monkford.

“Good morning.  Miss Eleanor Monkford?” James asked politely.  She nodded and eyed him suspiciously.  “I’m Detective Inspector Ja–”

Miss Monkford grabbed his wrist with a speed both unexpected and a little alarming.

“Do you know who did it?  Have you found out who hurt my poor Simmie?”

 _Poor Simmie?_ Simon Monkford was many things in James’s mind.  ‘Poor Simmie’ was not one of them.

“We’re still conducting enquiries, Miss Monkford.  May we come in?”

Her hand fell away.  She turned and walked down the short hallway into a kitchen dining room where she dropped into one of the chairs.

A half-full cup of tea sat next to the Oxford Mail.  It was the edition bearing Monkford’s photo on the front page.  Smeared inky circles dotted the paper where, James presumed, tears had fallen.  Lizzie walked quietly past James.  She picked up the kettle.

“Don’t bother about me, my dear.”  Eleanor Monkford twisted awkwardly to look over her shoulder.  “Make yourself a cuppa if you want.  I can’t look at tea anymore.”  An exhausted moan escaped when she turned back and leant heavily on the table.

“Is there someone who can stay with you, Miss Monkford?”  James was quite concerned for her welfare.  Under the harsh kitchen light, he could see she was beyond simply tired.  He doubted she’d eaten properly for several days.  He’d also noticed a worrying yellowish tinge in her skin.  His question fired her up.

“Only that useless lump of a niece of mine and she’s not welcome,” she snapped.

“Are you referring to Christine Harper?”

Miss Monkford sniffed loudly.  “After Simon went to prison, Christine’s life… fell apart.  She was my blood, so I said she could have a home here until she sorted herself.  A year I looked after her, and how did she repay me?  She let Simmie get murdered!”

Lizzie brought three glasses of water to the table and sat opposite James, on the other side of Miss Monkford.

“Why do you think she was involved?” Lizzie asked gently.

“Didn’t say she was involved.”  The look she cast at Lizzie said ‘foolish girl’.  “What I said was she let him get murdered.  She was supposed to be looking out for him.  That’s what we agreed.  Instead, he ends up dead in a playground, miles from home.”

James gave Lizzie a warning glance not to say anything about Monkford’s living situation.

Eleanor Monkford sniffled, pulled a well-used handkerchief from inside her cardigan sleeve, and swiped roughly at her nose.  She wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

“Miss Monkford, have you ever been inside St Aldates Police Station?”

She blinked at him and scowled.  “What’s that got to do with who killed my Simmie?”

“We’re trying to clear up some evidence that’s been causing confusion.  Could you answer the question please?”

Eleanor Monkford shrugged.  “It was months ago.  September.”

“Why did you go there?”

“I wanted to find out about the man my Simmie hurt.”

“And that man was…?”

She tutted loudly.  “You should know.  He was one of your lot.”  Her tone was dismissive.  “An Inspector Lewis.  He wasn’t there that day, but the nice young man behind the counter gave me two business cards when I asked for them.  I thought it was a sign when he had them there like that.”

“A sign?” Lizzie queried.

“Yes!  That Simmie would get a chance to make amends.”

James was staggered.  “Did you give the cards to Simon?”

“I had to.  Christine was useless.  I thought it was important that Simmie sought forgiveness.  Only the man he’d wronged could give him that.”  James wondered at her theology – and her naivety.

Lizzie leant forward on the table.  “Miss Monkford, why did you identify yourself as Christine Harper when you came in?”

Eleanor Monkford’s eyes widened.  “I’m not in trouble for that, am I?  Simmie said it would be all right as long as I didn’t use any of Christine’s papers as proof.  The young man never asked me for anything.  Am I in trouble?”

James found his voice.  “Simon suggested you use your niece’s name?”

“He thought it might raise alarms if I told the sergeant I was a Monkford, because of… well.”

James was beyond ready to leave.  They had what they needed, and if Miss Monkford’s current attitude was any guide, she’d repeat her story when needed. 

“You’re not in any trouble, Miss Monkford.  We will need a formal statement from you about how you came to get the business cards and why you gave them to Simon.  Someone will come here, rather than make you come all the way into the station again.  They’ll call first.”

She grabbed James’s wrist again.  “Why are you asking about business cards?  How does that help find Simmie’s killer?”

James stood, releasing himself from her grip.  “Miss Monkford, those cards… one was found on Simon’s body in the park, the other in his flat, in the room where Simon was stabbed.  Inspector Lewis, the man you wanted Simon to make amends with, to forgive Simon, was all but accused of Simon’s murder because of them.”

James left, taking no pleasure from the distress his words caused.  Worryingly, he felt little guilt either.

Lizzie, walking behind him, said nothing.

*******

“I was angry.”  Christine Harper sat down in the armchair with a thump, sending dust motes shooting into the weak afternoon light creeping through the window.  Lizzie stepped to one side as the cloud drifted towards her.

“You don’t deny the argument?” James asked.  He’d stood beside the couch where he could face Mrs Harper.

“No.”  She kept her head down and picked at the hem of her apron.

“According to our witness, you hit him.”

“Not bloody hard enough.  He chased after me.  He was the most arrogant bastard I ever had the misfortune to know.”

“We’ve been told you were angry even before speaking to your brother.  What was that about?”

“He was up to his old ways.  Setting up a con.”

“You were his accomplice in many of those earlier cons, weren’t you?”

“I was.”  She lowered her head further, turning away to one side.  Her shame was in her voice when she spoke again.  “Simon would tell me I was lucky because I was given a suspended sentence and probation.  Lucky?  Ha!”  She shook herself.  “It cost me my husband and my job and I had to leave High Wycombe.  I ended up having to move in with my aunt.  Everything was about my brother.  ‘Poor Simon, locked up in that horrible place,’ she’d say.  ‘Good Simon, kind Simon.’  To hear her talk, you’d think he’d been stitched up.  It was over a year before someone would take a chance on me and give me another job – I work as a cleaner at Oxford Brookes Wheatley Campus – and I could move out.”

“What had Simon done?”

“He’d only gone and set up a hotel scam, hadn’t he.  At the Malmaison, of all places.  He called me and asked me if I could pick him up from his parole officer’s building.  Then he told me to bring a couple of empty suitcases because he’d found an easy mark.  I wasn’t going to let him screw up my life again.”

“Where were you last Thursday night between 10pm and 5am?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Standard questions, Mrs Harper.”

“In bed.”

“Is there–”

“No,” she interrupted sharply.  “There’s no one to vouch for me, not even a cat.  I didn’t like my brother, and I never wanted to see him again, but I didn’t kill him.”

*******

Grainger met James and Lizzie when they arrived back at the station. 

“Anything?” he asked, his face warily hopeful.

“It was Monkford’s aunt.”  James waved Grainger into the office.  “Monkford had told her to use Christine’s name.”

“Sorry, sir?” Lizzie interrupted.  “If you don’t need me…”

“Go.  Say hi to Tony from me and Lewis.”  James looked around to see Grainger looking out the door after Lizzie.

“Thought her husband was in Canada?”

“Right now he’ll be about two hours out of Heathrow.  She told me last week.”

“Oh.  She never mentioned it to me.”

“I guess she always believed Lewis would be cleared and she’d be back here.”

“Right.”  Grainger took a seat in one of the visitors’ chairs.  “You were gone longer than expected.  Innocent asked me where you were about an hour ago.”

“We had to follow up on some information from Monkford’s parole officer.”

“Anything in it?”

“No.”  Because of her suspended sentence, Christine Harper’s prints would be in the system.  Had she been the one to leave prints on Monkford’s car, they would have known.  She was another of her brother’s victims.  James saw little point in dragging her name up now.

There was as sharp rap on the door.  “Gentlemen.”  Innocent entered and stood in the space between the two inspectors.  “Glad you decided to return to the office, Hathaway.  I just saw Lizzie racing out; you haven’t done something to upset her, have you?”

James rolled his eyes at the dig.  “No.  Tony’s coming home for a week and she wants to get to the airport to meet him.”

“Lucky her.  I hope you’re not expecting her in bright eyed at eight tomorrow morning.”

“No, ma’am.  I asked her to be in by seven.”

“James!”

He chuckled.  It felt good.  “I’ve asked her to go back to Eleanor Monkford’s at ten tomorrow morning to take a formal statement.  She’s coming in after that.”

“That’s better.  I take it Miss Monkford’s information was useful.”

“It explains a bit.  We’re still no closer to identifying our murderer, though.”

*******

After bringing both Grainger and Innocent up to date and filing the reports of the interviews with Eleanor Monkford and Christine Harper, James went home, texting Robbie as he left.

He made a couple of stops on the way, unlocking the front door a little after six.

“You look brighter.”  Robbie was standing in the short hallway, drying his hands on a tea towel.  He held out one hand for the takeaway bags.  “What’s the occasion?  Sausages and mash not good enough for you tonight?”

James pulled a bottle of Macallan from the second bag.  “We’re celebrating.”

“Really?”  Robbie winked at him.  “Thought that’s what we did last night?”

James grinned.  “That’s a new word for it.”

“Cheeky sod.”

James slipped his free hand around the back of Robbie’s neck, holding him steady as he kissed him.  “Your cheeky sod,” he murmured against Robbie’s lips.  “Let’s make that perfectly clear.”

“Oh, it is.”  Robbie pulled James closer by hooking his free arm around James’s waist.  “So are we celebrating anything different tonight, or simply the fact I’m a free man with an unblemished record?”

“Only that I was right about Eleanor Monkford.”

“Still no leads then.”

James sighed and rested his brow against Robbie’s.  “Not as yet.  DNA from the car should be back tomorrow.  There were several hairs found in the car that didn’t belong to Monkford, so we might have something.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

 


	12. Thursday, 5 February 2015 – Day 7 of the investigation

James stretched back in his chair, yawned, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Coffee,” he muttered.  A few more hours sleep would have been more welcome, but since that was out of the question, it would have to be caffeine.  With some effort, he stood, grabbed his mug, and made his way slowly to the break room.

James had woken up sitting in the corner of the couch at 4am, fuzzyheaded, with his back screaming at him.  Robbie had curled up beside him, with his head in James’s lap.  James didn’t have the heart to wake him.  The bottle of Macallan stood three-quarters empty on the coffee table.

They’d stayed that way until Robbie’s alarm had gone off at 6am.  Thursday was his early start; he had to be at the centre before 8am.

James checked his watch and determined that Lizzie should be on her way back from Littleworth.  He was still in the break room fifteen minutes later, staring out the window, when she found him.

“This might suit your taste better, sir.”

“Oh, you’re a lifesaver, Lizzie.”  He happily took the offered Costa cup and studied Lizzie as he did so.”

“You look… bright and fresh.  Brighter than I’d expected.” 

She blushed and pushed a fist against his arm.  “You’re the one who’s fresh, sir.”

“Good.  You’re both here.”  Grainger walked in carrying a folder.  “The DNA results are in.”

James led the way back to the office.

Grainger closed the door behind them and pulled out a sheet of paper.  “As expected, most of the DNA belonged to Monkford.  Of all the hairs found across the three sites – body, flat, and car - only one had a viable root bulb.  The lab recovered a full DNA sequence and we have a hit.”

James took the sheet from him.  “Who the hell is Martine Smith?”

“On it, sir.”  Lizzie sat at Hathaway’s computer and he handed her the page.

“DNA from one person, and prints from an unknown second person,” James mused.  “Friends?  A couple?  Do we know where this hair came from?”

“Passenger seat of Monkford’s car.”  Grainger slapped the file against his hand.  “We have a name, Hathaway; what does it matter exactly where the hair was found?”

“I’ve found Martine Smith, sir.”  Lizzie pushed the monitor around.  “Thirty three, recently paroled after serving eighteen months for possession of class A drugs, the most recent in a string of convictions going back to her teenage years.  In the last twelve years she’s spent more time in custody than out of it.”

James peered at the screen.  “Do we have a current address?”

Lizzie had picked up the phone and was keying in a number.  “Her parole officer will have one.  She’s in the same building as Caroline Baird.  Perhaps Monkford’s first antagonist wasn’t so random after all.”  She passed the handset to James.

*******

With an area car waiting outside, James and Lizzie found themselves back in the lobby they’d been in the previous day.  Martine Smith’s parole officer had informed them Martine was due in that afternoon.

“Will you be charging Martine with an offence?”

“We’ve recovered evidence which places her at the scene of a recent crime,” James had explained patiently.  “At the moment we just want to talk to her.  If we ask her to come into the station, and she is involved, she might run, and we don’t want that.”

The photograph on the system was recent, and they were confident of recognising her when she came out. 

The automatic doors whooshed open at the same time two lifts pinged their arrival.  A solidly built man entered the lobby as both lifts spilled out their occupants.  James spotted Martine immediately.  His first observation was that she fitted Caroline Baird’s vague description of Monkford’s first harasser.  The second was that the new arrival was heading straight for her.  James indicated for Lizzie to go to one side of the couple.  He’d go head on.

“Are you Martine Smith?”

“Who wants to know?”  The man stepped in front of her.

“Detective Inspector James Hathaway.  Martine, I have some questions for you.”

“Can’t you lot leave her alone!”  He lunged at Hathaway.  Lizzie moved quickly, grabbing the man’s arm and twisting it up behind his back.”

“Ryan!” Martine screamed.  “Get off him, bitch!”  She threw herself at Lizzie.  James’s reached Martine as her fingers came dangerously close to Lizzie’s eyes and left two scraped lines down Lizzie’s cheeks.

The two constables who’d been waiting with the car came running in behind the security officer.  James hadn’t noticed the officer moving.  He nodded his thanks to the guard as the constables took control of Martine and Ryan surname-as-yet-unknown.

Lizzie formally cautioned both of them: Martine for assault and Ryan, whose licence bore the surname Hough, for obstruction.

“Are you all right?” James asked her as they followed the small procession down the stairs to the waiting car.

“Yeah, course.  Just a scratch.”  She dabbed her fingers against her cheek and looked at them.  “There, not even bleeding.”

James stopped her and turned her so the injured cheek was facing him.  Then he took a photo on his phone.  “Just in case it fades before we get back to the station.”

*******

From the viewing room, James studied Martine Smith as she sat scowling at the constable by the door in the interview room.  A Legal Aid solicitor sat beside her, having seemingly given up on engaging his client.  Grainger stood several paces away from James.  Lizzie had taken Ryan Hough for fingerprinting and to have mouth swabs taken.

James was having some concerns that he and Grainger wouldn’t interview as well together as he did with Lewis or even Lizzie.  He didn’t know any of Grainger’s signals or tells, nor did Grainger know his.

Grainger’s voice was unexpectedly loud in the silent room.  “All your time in this station and you and I have never interviewed a suspect together.”

James turned to find Grainger looking at him with an understanding James hadn’t expected.  It was a little alarming.

“I know I’m not Lewis,” Grainger continued, “and as far as I’m concerned this is your case.  I won’t speak unless you give me a clear indication.”

James was at a loss as to how to respond.  “Thank you,” sounded arrogant.  “That won’t be necessary,” smacked of sycophancy.

“I… appreciate the offer, but this is your case too.”

Grainger smiled, slowly.  “I’ve watched you and Lewis.  I can’t match what you two had.  Have.  Besides, glowering silence can be very effective, and that I can do.”

James felt himself relax.  “Shall we do this?”

Martine didn’t react when the two inspectors entered the room.  The solicitor looked relieved to have proceedings underway.

“Martine–”

“This is bullshit,” she muttered curtly.  “I was provoked.  You have no right to keep me here.”

The solicitor sighed.  James knew how he was going to tackle Martine Smith.

“Miss Smith, you were placed under arrest for attacking a police officer.  I will accept that you were provoked.” 

She folded her arms across her chest and sat back in the chair with a smug grin.  “Then let me go.”

“You were provoked because Mr Hough’s unprovoked actions lead to him being restrained and you reacted to that.  The smart move on your part would have been to do nothing.”

“I was still provoked.  Let.  Me.  Go.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Smith.”  Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Grainger cross his arms and stare balefully across the table.  “Have you even given a second’s thought as to why we were there, waiting for you?  Why we wanted to talk to you?”

She pressed her arms closer to her body, her arrogance faltering into uncertainty as her gaze darted from James to Grainger to the solicitor and then down to the table.

“I did try to explain you’d found DNA evidence linking her to a crime scene,” the solicitor said.  “I didn’t mention any names, as you requested.  I’m still not entirely comfortable with that.”

“I understand and I appreciate it.”  James leant forward on the table and waited until Martine looked at him.

“Martine, we sent hair samples found at a crime scene for DNA testing.  The profile matched the one on record for you.  Can you explain that?”

“I shed!  My hair’s probably all over Oxford.  This is bullshit.”

“This hair and where it was found connects you to a dead man.  A murder victim.”

She paled.  “I don’t know nothing about a dead man or murder.”

“Okay.  Let’s talk about something else.  In early December, a witness saw you harassing a man outside your parole office.  What can you tell me about that?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about a man named Simon Monkford, whom you were overheard threatening, telling him he deserved to die and better watch his back.  Ring any bells now?”

To his astonishment, there was no vehement denial.  Instead, a single tear ran down the side of her nose.  When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

“He killed my dad and he ruined my life.”

James knew Monkford’s criminal history intimately.  The only death he’d been responsible for was that of Val Lewis.

“Are you certain you have the right man?”

“I’d know that wanker anywhere.  My mum never let me forget his face.”

“There’s nothing in his police record to support your claim.”

Her face folded into an expression of disgust.  “That’s cos your lot only care when it’s a proper murder or a drunk driver or some other shit like that.  You don’t care when the people left behind can’t cope.  Like my dad.”

Grainger rose and spoke quietly to the constable by the door, who stepped outside.

“Tell me what happened,” James said gently.

“Why?  What do you care?”

“A judge might care.”

Martine chewed on her bottom lip.  Behind James, the door opened and closed, and Grainger returned to his chair.  In his hand was the file James had compiled, bringing together Monkford’s criminal history in the United Kingdom and Canada; a linked timeline showing progressions and regressions, and tracing his aliases.  Grainger flicked through it slowly.

“I was twelve.  My dad managed an off-licence and we lived in the flat above it.  We were normal people.  Then… that bastard–”  She spat the word out.  “–held up the shop.  He hit my dad over the head and then held a gun against it.”  Martine started to tremble.  The solicitor was alarmed, but stayed still.  “Me and mum were upstairs.  We could hear the shouting.  Mum rang the police and they were there in a couple of minutes.  We found out later they were up the road at the chippie – someone had put a brick through the window.”

“So Monkford was caught in the act?”

She sniffed, nodded, and wiped her face with her sleeve.  “Dad needed six stitches in the back of his head.  Mum went to hospital with him and left me with a WPC.  She was nice.”

Grainger leant in towards James.  He was holding the file open on a copy of a police report.  “The gun was a replica,” he murmured.  “Monkford was charged with a range of offences and served time for the assault.”

Martine was hugging herself tightly, though the room was warm.  She was lost in her memories.  James knew what that was like.  He’d spent far too much time there.

“Did your father recover from his injuries?”

“His hair never grew back along the scar line.  Every time he looked in the mirror, he remembered.  He had nightmares.”

“He would have been entitled to see a counsellor.”

Martine glared at James.

“Shrinks.  Witch doctors.  He saw one.  God knows what they said to him.  He came home saying it was his fault Monkford had attacked him.”  Her trembling now had nothing to do with sorrow.  “Nothing me or mum did changed his mind.  He quit his job, so we were homeless.  The council were fucking useless.  We ended up in a one bedroom flat for over two years.  I had to sleep on the fucking couch.”  She slapped her palm on the table with a force that caused the solicitor to recoil.  “That was Monkford’s fault, not my dad’s.”

James was aware the counselling service in the 90s had its faults, if that was even the right word.  Sadly, Martine wasn’t alone in her experience.

“Miss Smith–”

“He jumped off the roof of our block.  Twelve floors.  I came home from school and…”  She clenched her jaw.  Her face flushed red with the effort of keeping her emotions in check.

“Mum never got over it.  She drank.  When I was sixteen, she passed out in the shower.  Did you know you can drown in a shower even when it drains properly?  I didn’t.  I found her when I got home from school.  I never went back.  And no one fucking cared.”

James offered her his handkerchief.  “Standard police issue,” he’d once quipped.  There was no levity now.

Martine wiped her face and blew her nose, crumpling the white fabric in her hand when she finished.  “I should have had my dad around,” she said sorrowfully.  “That bastard as good as killed him.  I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

“You said earlier you didn’t know anything about a dead man.”

“It was all over the papers.  You’d have to have been on the moon not to know about it.  I don’t know anything about a dead man in a car.”

“I don’t recall saying anything about a car.”  James waited for the penny to drop.

“Shit.”  It was a muttered sound more than a word.  “Is that entrapment?” she asked the solicitor.

He shook his head, his face grim.  He recognised what had been a simple case of assault had turned far more serious.

James folded his hands and rested them on the table.  “Miss Smith, we know you threatened him, and we know you were in the car that transported him away from his flat.  Was Mr Hough driving that car?  You couldn’t have been; you don’t have a licence.”

“Ryan’s got nothing to do with this.  He’s a mate.”

“Miss Smith, I think he is involved.  Deeply involved.  The question is whether it was by choice or circumstance.  What happened?”

Martine stared down the solicitor who held his own.

He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees.  “The courts will take into consideration whether or not you cooperated with the investigation.  Stretching things out, attempting to shift blame or conceal the truth extends the investigation and makes the situation grimmer for yourself.  It can also see you charged with wasting police time.  My advice would be to say what you know, and don’t say what you don’t know.”

James didn’t expect her next statement.

“I didn’t mean to kill him.”  Her voice and face were expressionless.  “He wasn’t supposed to die.  I wanted him to suffer like me and my mum did.”

“Are you admitting you killed him?”

“It was an accident.”

“He was stabbed with an implement brought to the scene.  That’s premeditation.”

“I only meant to scare him.”

“Yet the man is dead.”

“He deserved it.”

“I think it would be best if you started at the beginning, Miss Smith.  We have all the time we need.”

She stared at him as the seconds ticked by on James’s watch.  With a deep sigh of defeat, she slipped further down in the chair, wrapping her arms more tightly around her.

“I first saw him on the 15th of October when I was leaving after a meeting with my parole officer.  He was getting in a lift as I was getting out.  He didn’t see me.”

“You seem quite sure about the date.”

“I am.  I made a note in my phone.”

“What happened next?”

“Nothing.  Not then.  He got in a car.  I had no way of following him.  I saw him near the JR a couple of weeks later.  He was walking, so I followed him home.  Wanker lived in a posh flat.  No council housing for him, oh, no.  Bastard.”

“It made you angry.”

“Angry?  I was bloody furious.  I started watching him.  I wanted to catch him out.”

“At what?”

“Whatever it was he was doing to be able to afford to live there and drive a car.  He wasn’t working.  I wanted to see him go back inside and lose everything.  I watched him for a month.”  She grinned.  It was an unnerving sight.  “It was so easy to hide in the front garden at night.”  She giggled; it was a slightly manic sound.  “I knew the flat number from the intercom.  I’d see him in the windows.  He never knew I was there.”

“Did you confront him there?”

“No, only that one time.  He didn’t remember me.”  Her face crumpled as she fought back tears.  “He didn’t remember my dad.  He didn’t care.  I swore I’d make him care.  I’d make him remember.  I wanted him to live with guilt.  I wanted him to pay.”

James had heard the same sentiment many times.  How did you explain that the satisfaction was only fleeting?  What did you do when the hurt and the anger didn’t stay away?  Revenge, retribution, payback; whatever you called it, it was a fleeting, hollow victory.

“What happened last Thursday night, Martine?”

“We’d been out drinking with Ryan and his mates at the Vicky Arms in Marston.  We left early, around nine.  We went past that bastard’s street and I made Ryan turn back.”

“Did he know where you were going?”

She shook her head.  “No.  Told him it was someone my dad had known.”

“Why did you go there?”

“I was going to face him again.  Make him remember.  I wanted him to know and feel something for what he’d done to me and mum.”

“How did you get inside?

“That was luck.  Someone hadn’t closed the front door properly, and he was so cocky, so sure he was safe, he opened his door when we knocked.  Never asked who it was.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“Cause he was an arrogant prick.”  James rather felt it was because Monkford would have assumed it was one of his neighbours.  “He recognised me though.  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said.  ‘Back with your sob story.’  Then he turned and stalked off into a room.  ‘Don’t just stand there, girl, come here,’ he said, like I was a fucking dog.”

James believed Martine.

“I went to the door and he pulled out his wallet.  He held out some cash and told me to take it and go away.  He shoved it in my face and I pushed him away.”  She shrank in on herself.  “I forgot I had the chisel in my hand.  He dropped the money and fell to the floor.  The chisel was still in my hand.  It was covered in blood.”  Her eyes carried the horror of the memory.

The solicitor stared wide-eyed at Martine.  His mouth had fallen open.  James felt the same.

“Martine, why did you have a chisel?”

“It was for self-defence.  It was the only thing I could find.”

“Find?”

“It wasn’t ‘til we got near the flat I thought I might need to protect meself.”

“Where did you find it?”

“It was Ryan’s.  I took it out of his toolbox when we got to the bastard’s place.”

“Toolbox?”

“He keeps a toolbox in his boot.”

James was puzzled.  If the chisel was from the centre, why did Ryan Hough have it in a toolbox in his car?  He put the question aside to ask Hough later.  Or perhaps Lizzie could shed more light on the matter.  James had been so relieved when Lizzie had proven beyond doubt the chisel wasn’t Robbie’s that he had neglected to read her full report on the centre.

“Was he aware you took it?”

“I told him I was putting my bag in the boot.  I slipped the chisel up my sleeve.  I don’t… I don’t think he saw me.”  She blinked several times slowly.

There was a light tap at the door.

James used the distraction and Martine’s uncertainty as a point to break the interview.  The more unsettled she became, the more she was likely to say when they resumed.  He left Grainger in the room.

Lizzie was waiting outside.  “I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but I thought you should know as soon as possible that Ryan Hough’s prints match the partial prints found on Monkford’s car.  In addition, he was wearing Converse shoes.  The size and pattern match the footprints found in the flat and I’ve had them sent off for testing.  There was dark matter caught in the tread.”

“Blood?”

“SOCO won’t commit until they test it, but it appears highly likely.”

“Lizzie, I need you to track down Hough’s car; it’s probably not far from where we arrested them.”  Lizzie frowned a question.  “Martine Smith claims to have taken the chisel from a toolbox in the boot.”

“Well, that’s possible.”

“It is?”

“Security in that centre was lax.  Anyone could walk out with tools and noone would be any the wiser.”

“In that case, contact the manager at the community centre; find out if either Smith or Hough were ever involved in any of the programs.  I still want Hough’s car found and brought in though.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is Hough, by the way?”

“Interview Four.”

“Has he said anything about Monkford?”

Lizzie pulled a face and shook her head.  “We’re still waiting for Legal Aid to send someone for him.”

James rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  It was going to be a long day.

Back in the interview room, Martine was sobbing while Grainger and the solicitor stared on helplessly.

“What happened?”  James directed his question at Grainger.

“She just started seconds before you opened the door.”  His bewilderment was almost comical.

“Miss Smith!”  It wasn’t quite a shout and it had the desired effect of getting her attention.

“You have.  to let.  Ryan go.”  She hiccupped the words out.  “It was all my fault.  I made him help me.  He wanted to run and get help and I stopped him.”

James sat down, pulling his chair closer to the table.  “Why are you telling us this?”

“Because I can’t ruin his life the way Monkford ruined mine.”

James brought his hands together and rested his chin on his interlocked fingers.  “If you truly mean that–”

“I do.  Dear god, I do,” she sobbed.

“Then you’ll tell us what happened after Monkford fell to the floor.”

“I dropped the chisel.  Ryan kicked it when he came running into the room.  I didn’t know where it went.  I’m not even sure he knew what he’d done.”

James felt Grainger at his shoulder.  “The chisel was found some distance from the body.  SOCO hypothesised it was thrown with some force.  A kick would do it.”

“Go on, Miss Smith,” James encouraged.

“He – Monkford – had landed on a rug.  I made Ryan help me roll him up in it.  We tied it in place with electrical extension cords Ryan found in a drawer.  I told Ryan we had to get the body out of there.”

“Why didn’t you simply leave?  Why take him all the way to Blackbird Leys?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be there.  I didn’t want him found in the flat.  I suddenly thought if he were, somehow someone would know I’d been involved.  I wanted to take him as far south as possible and send him and the car into the river and I needed Ryan’s help.”

“Because Ryan could drive.”

Martine nodded and wiped her face again.  “We were on Watlington Road, just past the retail park when the fuel warning light came on.  I didn’t want to get stuck in the middle of nowhere with a dead body, and we couldn’t go to a petrol station, so I told Ryan to go to the park instead.  He wanted to go back to the JR and dump him there.  Stupid idea; we would have been all over CCTV.  We put Monkford under the tree near the playground, and took the rug and extension cords with us and dumped them in one of the skips at the retail park.”

“You should have listened to Ryan.”

“What, to save you some time?”

“To save a man’s life.  Simon Monkford wasn’t dead when you left him in the park.  If you’d taken him to the JR, there’s a very good chance he’d be alive today and you’d be looking at a charge of attempted murder.  Given your history and Monkford’s impact on your life, a judge may have been lenient in sentencing.  But you left him and he died.  You’re facing a manslaughter charge at the very least, and regardless of your wish to spare Ryan, in all likelihood he’ll be charged as an accessory after the fact.”

Martine Smith buried her face in her hands and wept.

*******

The solicitor for Ryan Hough arrived twenty minutes after Martine Smith found herself in the custody suite pending formal charges.  They had more than enough to apply to have her held without charge for 96 hours.  However, James suspected they wouldn’t need that long.  Once Grainger and Innocent made the decision between murder and manslaughter, Miss Smith would find herself in front of a magistrate.

It would be James’s task now to determine Ryan Hough’s degree of involvement.

Hough sat nervously beside his solicitor who, in James’s opinion, didn’t look much older than his client did.  Hough was twenty-two, ten years younger than Martine Smith, a detail which could see Hough walk away with probation if the court felt she had unduly influenced him.

“How do you know Miss Smith?” James asked.

“Tina?  My dad knew her dad years ago when I was little.  He recognised her when she moved into the flat next door.”

“What do you know about Miss Smith?”

“She’s had a rough life.  Lost both her parents when she was still at school, like I lost me mum.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Hough shrugged.  “Ta.”

“Did you know Miss Smith had been in prison?”

“She made some mistakes.  She’s trying to make something of her life now.  Been encouraging me to, as well.”

“Are you fond of her?”

“Fond?”  He snickered.  “Bloody hell, only ever heard my grandma use ‘fond’.  Yeah, she’s all right.  We have a few laughs.”

The light flush on Hough’s cheeks implied they had more than laughs together, and James feared that would work against the young man.

“Mr Hough, we’d like to ask you some questions about Simon Monkford.”

“Monk– whatsit.  He was the bloke found dead in the park, yeah?”

“That’s correct.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“How did you know Simon Monkford?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then perhaps you can explain how we found footprints matching your shoes inside Mr Monkford’s home?”

“That’s bullshit.  They’re Converse.  Gotta be hundreds of pairs in Oxford.  Could be anyone’s shoes.”

“I don’t think we’d find many with Mr Monkford’s blood trapped in the treads.”

“You’re lying.  You’re trying to stitch me up.  I know how long it takes to get DNA and shit.  I watch CSI.  You won’t know anything until tomorrow.  Bloody rozzers, you think you’re better than everyone else.”

“Not everyone else,” James murmured.  _Just a select few at a time._   “Well, if you can’t or won’t explain the shoes, perhaps you can tell us how your fingerprints came to be on Simon Monkford’s car?  The same car found abandoned with a large pool of Mr Monkford’s blood on the back seat.”

Hough’s swagger faltered.  “I swear I didn’t know what she was going to do.  One minute she followed him into a room and the next thing I hear her make this bloody awful whining sound.  I ran in, he was dead on the floor, and she just kept repeating ‘we have to hide the body, we have to hide the body.’”

“What did you think about that?”

“I didn’t.  I just did what she told me.  I still don’t know how we got him in the car without being seen.”

“Why did you leave him in Blackbird Leys Park?”

“Tina said to.  We were nearly out of petrol.  She said someone would find him.”

“And you were okay to go along with that?”

He screwed up his face and rapidly shook his head.  “I thought we should take him to the JR.  I mean, I know they couldn’t have done anything, but leaving him in the open felt wrong.  At least at the hospital they’d put him in a morgue.  Give him a bit of dignity.”

James pitied Hough.  He was a good person who’d made the wrong friend.  His testimony would spare him from the harshest sentencing, but he wouldn’t escape the courtroom unscathed.

“Ryan, do you know how Simon Monkford died?”

“Tina said she stabbed him.”

“With what?”

“I…”  He frowned.  “I don’t know.  I didn’t see a knife.”

“Why did you believe her if you couldn’t see a weapon?”

“I didn’t hear a gunshot.  I didn’t hear anything except Tina making that noise.”

“Miss Smith told us you keep a toolbox in the boot of your car.”

“What of it?  I need it.”

“According to our information, you’re currently unemployed.  Why do you need a toolbox?”

“I’m trying for an apprenticeship.  The blokes at the centre reckon I’ve got a chance.”

“Which centre?”

“Giles Road.”

“Which trade?”

“Carpentry.”

“They won’t look favourably on you when they find out you’re stealing tools from the centre.”  Hough’s face gave him away.  “Are all the tools stolen?” 

James made him repeat his mumbled yes more clearly.

“Just from the centre?”

“Mostly.”

“Ryan, Simon Monkford was killed with a chisel taken from your toolbox.”

Hough’s expression swung from disbelief to horror to anger.  “That bitch!  She said she was putting her bag in the boot.  Is she trying to blame this on me?  That fucking cow?”

“Mr Hough, calm down.  Miss Smith’s given us her version of events.  Why don’t you tell us in your own words what happened.”

 

*******

 

Robbie pulled James’s clean bare feet onto his lap and began to massage firmly.

James groaned with pleasure.  “I am eternally grateful to Laura for teaching you how to do that.”

“I reckon you’ve definitely earned it after these past few days.”  Robbie grinned as James shuddered with pleasure under his touch.  “Do you think the lad’s got a chance of staying out of prison?”

“Hard to say.  CPS are talking about throwing the book at both of them.  Someone up the chain of command is pissed off a playground was chosen for a body dump.  The argument is they could have left Monkford in his car and walked the two kilometres home.  I think the only thing in Smith and Hough’s favour is that a child didn’t discover Monkford.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“In a way I pity both of them.  Hough’s future is effectively ruined, regardless of what happens, and Smith has to live with the fact she’ll have done to another what she believed Monkford had done to her.”

Robbie started working his way up James’s right calf, taking delight in the small sounds coming out of James.  “Have you much left to do tomorrow?”

“Finishing up as much paperwork as we can, another meeting with CPS, and then Lizzie and I will go out to see Eleanor Monkford and Christine Harper with the news.  It’s going to be a couple of days before we get the DNA results back from Hough’s shoes, although Forensics were able to confirm it was human blood and matched Monkford’s type.”

 

Robbie’s hands stilled.  “You put a lot on the line for me, both you and Lizzie.  I can’t thank you enough.”

“We didn’t put anything on the line.  I knew you were innocent, and Lizzie wouldn’t believe any differently.”

“Aye, but knowing that, I would have understood if you’d passed the case over to someone else to avoid standing on the toes of Innocent and the ACC.”

“No, I couldn’t have.”  James stretched forward and took Robbie’s hands in his own.  “I take my responsibilities very seriously, even if it includes treading on toes to ensure you’re fairly treated.”

Robbie shook his head in fond exasperation.  “I’m not a child who needs looking after, you know.”

“No, but you are my world, and I’ll move heaven and earth for you.”

 


	13. Friday, 6 February 2015 – Post-investigation

James’s phone pinged.

_//Ordered Indian from the usual.  It’ll be ready in 30 minutes.  Can you pick it up on the way to pick me up?  I’ll wait out front. R x//_

James closed down his computer with the knowledge that he had a clear case list and he and Lizzie were back at the bottom of the rotation.  He was looking at his first full free weekend since November. 

CPS had taken over the case files, and the fingerprints and blood evidence from Hough’s shoes had been enough for them to start building the case against him.  SOCO had also found a discarded t-shirt in Hough’s car, stained in blood with the unmistakable pattern from a pair of Converse shoes, Hough’s shoes.  The DNA results would no doubt be the final piece of the puzzle for them.  It was over until the case went to court.

“Goodnight, Lizzie.”  James grabbed his coat and checked his pockets for his wallet and keys.

“Goodnight, sir.  Have a good weekend.”

“I shall endeavour to do so.  Do you have any plans for the weekend?”

She winked at him.  “Tony’s caught up on his sleep so we thought we’d catch up on each other before he has to go back to work.”

James returned her infectious grin.  “You’ll have the perfect weather for it, I hear.  They’ve forecast rain and sleet for the entire weekend.”

“Excellent.”

Forty minutes later, James pulled up to let Robbie jump in the car, lifting the takeaway bags off the seat.

James handed them to Robbie once Robbie had his seatbelt on.  “I take it you don’t feel like cooking tonight?”

“When I know I’ve got you all to meself for at least 48 hours, I’m spending as little of that time in the kitchen as I can.”

James found Robbie’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze.  “You won’t get any argument from me.”

*******

James set the plates and cutlery on the table.  Robbie opened the containers, adding a spoon to each one for serving.  A bottle of wine sat open on the table, breathing.  They sat down to eat.

“So is that you done on the Monkford case now?”

“Pretty much.  The DNA results will go direct to CPS, including the new ones taken from Hough’s car and his t-shirt, though no one doubts what they’re going to show, not after Hough’s interview.”

“Worry about it again when you get the court date.  No amount of overthinking is going to change what happens before then.”

“You’re right,” James mumbled around a mouthful of rice and chicken korma.  He lifted his head to find Robbie watching him with narrowed eyes.

“You’re not entirely happy about something,” Robbie said.  “What is it?  Something about the evidence or the statements that’s niggling at you?”

James lightly tapped the edge of the plate with his fork.  “Grainger.  I’m still not happy or resolved about the way he pinned you as a primary suspect based on a piece of debatable evidence.”

“The chisel.”

“Yes.”

“Step back for a second, love.  Even if Grainger had pushed, CPS would have been hard-pressed to make a case stick.  It would never have gone any further.”

“That’s not the point.  Had the victim been anyone other than Monkford, your name appearing on the list would have been little more than coincidence.  There would have even been some in the station cracking jokes about it.”

Robbie clasped James’s hand, silencing the fork.  “Grainger’s Grainger.  He once told me he didn’t understand how I hadn’t attacked Monkford when I had the chance.  He reckoned that if he’d been in my shoes, he’d be in prison for killing the man.  That was probably in the back of his mind.”

“He doesn’t know you, does he?”

“Not like you.”

They continued their meal in a mostly peaceful silence broken only by the sound of the occasional distant siren.

Robbie cleared his throat.  “I was offered a five-year contract at the training centre today.”

James swallowed his mouthful.  “Where did that come from?”

“I suspect Innocent’s hand.  Her way of making sure we can’t inadvertently end up working a case together.”

“Does she have that level of clout at the centre?  I thought they were fairly autonomous with regard to hiring.”

“They are.  She’s also on a couple of committees with the head of the centre.  She’d be in a position to make a recommendation if she knew they were looking for someone.”

James pushed the rice around on his plate with one finger.  “What do you think you’ll do?”

“It’s tempting.  Regular hours, the same pay.  I think I’d be more than ready to retire after that.  You’ll probably be a DCI by then.  Could be a good move.  It probably wouldn’t really matter who knew about us either.”

“You, retire, while I’m still in the force?  It’ll never happen.”

“Says who?”

“You’d be happy for the first few months and then you’d be pestering me to tell you everything about the cases I’m on and giving me your input – you might as well get paid for running your own investigations.”

Robbie sighed.  “Once a copper, always a copper.”

James smiled wistfully.  “Laura said that to me when I came back.”

“If it’s where you’re truly meant to be, once it’s in your blood, it’s hard to let it go, love.”

*******

James put the uneaten food in the fridge and filled the sink with soapy water to soak the dishes while Robbie took his shower.  When Robbie came out, James would shower while Robbie washed the dishes and set them on the rack to dry.  The simple routine worked well for them when work allowed.

Robbie’s stockinged feet were on the coffee table and he was flicking through the telly channels when James emerged from the bathroom.  Beside Robbie’s feet, two filled glasses flanked a second bottle of wine.

James lowered himself into the corner seat of the couch and stretched for the glasses, passing one to Robbie as he sat back.  Images blinked past, one after the other.

“Stop here.”  James enfolded Robbie’s hand and the remote control.

“You’re joking, right?”  Robbie’s right eyebrow arched high.  “You’ve got this on DVD.”

“Right.  It means we don’t have to concentrate on it.”

“Oh, aye?  You got something in mind to distract me?”

“I have several things in mind, but I have some questions first.”

“When do you not have questions, pet?”

“I choose not to answer that.”

“Maybe I’ll not answer your questions, then?”

James kissed him.  “Please?”

“All right, go on.”

“When do you have to give the centre an answer?”

“End of the month.  Next question.”

“You said it wouldn’t matter who knew about us, if you took the contract, that is.  Did you mean it?”

“Wouldn’t have said it otherwise.  You know me.”

James smiled happily.  “I do, I was just checking.”

“Well, there’s a few weeks before we have to think about that.”

Robbie took a mouthful of wine and swallowed it down slowly.  James stared, transfixed by the bobbing of Robbie’s throat.  It immediately cast his memories back to the day he’d unwittingly bared his heart over tea and toast, only to have his deepest longing fulfilled.  A hand against his cheek drew him back to the present.

“Where did you go?”

“Pondering tea and toast and truth.”

“Why’d I ask?  You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

“You said we had a few weeks–”  A fingertip against his lips quieted him.

“I was talking about Lyn.”

“Lyn?”

Robbie nodded.  “I think it’s time I told her.”

“I thought you wanted to do that face to face.”

“I do, but the way things are going, I don’t know when I’ll get the chance.  Innocent knows about us; Lyn has a right to know before anyone else.  Once I’ve told her, I hope it’ll be a bit easier telling Laura.”

James put his glass down and then took Robbie’s face gently between his palms.  He kissed him slowly.  “For luck.”  Before he could mull over the decision, James left the couch and brought the phone handset to Robbie.  “You’d better get on with it.”

James turned to go, to leave Robbie to talk to Lyn in private.  One quick tug had him in Robbie’s lap.

“You’re staying right here,” Robbie murmured.  The muffled sound of a phone ringing filled the silence between them.  Lyn answered on the third ring.

“Hello, love.”

_“Hi, Dad!  You’re calling early this week.  What’s up?”_

“You sitting down, pet?”  Robbie’s voice was bright.  “I’ve got a bit of news for you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The timing of this fic assumes the events of series 8 took place between April – June 2014. Yes, I have taken some liberties with the weather conditions on the listed dates.


End file.
